


Lawful Impediment

by splix



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, First Time, Insecurity, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2018-10-08 06:31:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10380573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splix/pseuds/splix
Summary: Douglas asks Martin to be his best man.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SundayDuck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SundayDuck/gifts).



> A Fandom Trumps Hate fic for Sunday Duck. Thank you for your patience!

*

 

"Oh, Douglas…there, right there. Christ, don't stop."

Douglas maintained his steady, leisurely pace, his head buried between the lushness of Fiona Meade's soft, silky thighs. Fiona's fingers dug into his shoulders, her short nails scraping his skin. He clasped her waist tightly, pinning her to the bed, his forearms clamping against her hips and preventing her from twisting out of his grasp. He kept her pale silvery-grey knickers pulled to one side with his thumb; the flimsy fabric strained against her flesh.

"Oh, Douglas, ohhh…." Her voice climbed higher, her muscles clenched, and she fell back, gasping and shuddering. 

Douglas propped himself up on his elbows to watch her face, gorgeously flushed, her tawny hair tumbling over the pillow, her breasts quivering, trapped and enticing in a sheer silvery bra. Silently, he congratulated himself on a job well done, and caressed her belly and thighs.

"Don't – don't," Fiona whispered, pushing his hands away. "Give me a moment." She lay back, breathing hard and staring at the ceiling. "Christ." She arched her back and groaned, then stretched luxuriously. "At the risk of sounding like an utter cliché, I don't know how you do it."

"Talent," Douglas replied modestly.

"And practise, I should think."

"That too."

Fiona laughed and swatted Douglas with a pillow. "Come here." She urged him up and kissed him deeply. "That was _amazing_. Thank you."

"The pleasure was entirely mine, believe me." Douglas pulled the duvet over both of them and caressed Fiona's inner thigh. "Stay in today. It's wretched outside." He nodded toward the window, where a dull, icy rain thudded against the glass.

"I'd love to, but I can't. I've got loads of work to do before Wembley next week."

"If two shows sold out in twenty minutes, I can't imagine what you have left to do. Surely you can sit back and relax a bit, let your pretty boy-band fend for themselves."

"Ha! The lads have telly and radio interviews all week, meet and greet dos, industry parties ad nauseam. If I'm not with them every step of the way, God knows where they'll run off to. It's all I can do to keep Ewan from screwing every girl he sees, and Dev will shoot it, snort it, or swallow it if it's not nailed down. The other four have problems of their own, but at least I can usually reach them via text. Ewan and Dev had minders, but…." Fiona shrugged. "It's a rough job, what can I say?"

"Fortunately you're equal to the task," Douglas said. "What about after next week?"

Fiona rolled over and plucked the _Times_ magazine from her bedside table. "After next week the lads go on holiday and I am officially on holiday from Face Forward myself. Hurrah. Not that I don't have a million more things to do."

"I was thinking of getting away for the weekend. Marrakech," Douglas murmured.

Fiona paged through her magazine. "Can't do it, darling, sorry. Oh, God, look at that dress. Fabulous."

Douglas peered at the photo of a lanky model in a tight cream-coloured sheath. "Lovely. I'd quite like to tear it off your body. You're sure you can't get away?"

"Quite sure, I'm afraid."

"I'm flying the weekend after that."

"It's just as well. I've got a Virgin do next Saturday. I was going to ask if you wanted to be my date, but…." She bent and kissed him lingeringly. "I see I'll have to go alone. Pity. I've got a smashing frock."

"Pity indeed." Douglas stretched theatrically, and slipped his hand beneath the mattress, finding the little box he'd secreted earlier. He'd hoped to use it in Marrakech, but it seemed Marrakech wasn't in the cards. "Fi darling…how long have we been seeing one another?"

"Oh…five months? Six? An aeon, certainly." Fiona grinned at him.

"You must be bored with me by now."

"Unspeakably bored," she laughed. 

"What would you say to extending that boredom into the next thirty or forty years?" Douglas asked, and produced the little box, opening it.

Fiona stared down at the square-cut diamond in silence. Finally she gazed at him. "You know, I never thought I would be the sort of person who'd be stunned into silence by a shiny rock and a proposal of marriage."

"I was hoping it was less the rock and the proposal than the devastatingly charming and handsome individual behind them."

"God, you _are_ a romantic, Douglas." Fiona reached out, past the diamond, and stroked Douglas' hair. "You really want to spend the rest of your life with me?"

"I shouldn't have asked if I didn't."

"Well, then." Fiona tossed the magazine aside and held out her left hand. "I accept."

A little knot loosened in Douglas' chest as he plucked the ring from its box and slid it onto his fiancée's finger. "You've made me a very happy man." He took Fiona into his arms and lowered her to the bed. "Do you have time to celebrate?"

"I think so, if you can manage to keep it to an hour."

"Marvellous."

 

*

 

"Late," Carolyn intoned as Douglas ducked inside the Portakabin. "Again."

"Surely not," Douglas protested, consulting his watch. "Blinky and Sniffles Winterhalter aren't even here yet."

"It's _Binky_ and _Snaffles_ as you well know, Douglas, and you're very lucky that they haven't arrived. Well, never mind. Martin's done the charts and is doing the walkaround now –" 

"—as well he might, being the _captain_ ," Douglas remarked with a touch of acid.

"—and Arthur's hoovering," Carolyn continued, as if Douglas hadn't interrupted. "He began an hour ago and hasn't finished, though why that surprises me should be anyone's guess. I'm certain he's hoovering the ceiling."

"He did explode a fish pie in the galley last week," Douglas pointed out, removing his raincoat and shaking it out before hanging it on the coatrack. "You told him to be thorough."

"I didn't mean thoroughly stupid," Carolyn said. "Why _are_ you late, Douglas? I've warned you repeatedly."

"No particular reason," Douglas replied airily. "Just canoodling with my fiancée."

"Well, see that it doesn't happen again. The Winterhalters are dreadfully impatient, and it's utterly astounding that they remain faithful customers after Arthur's last –" Carolyn gaped at him. "Fiancée."

Douglas did his best to remain nonchalant. "Yes indeed."

"Not Fiona."

"Yes, Fiona."

"Oh, good Lord."

"Do try to contain your enthusiasm, Carolyn."

Carolyn snorted. "What is this – wife number six?"

"Four, thanks very much."

"I'll say this for you, Douglas – you never do anything by halves. When's the wedding?"

"We're hoping for April. She's got a gap in her schedule then." 

"Well, I hope you'll both be blissfully happy. Congratulations," Carolyn said as the Portakabin door swung open and Martin and Arthur half-tumbled in.

"The Winterhalters are here, Mum!" Arthur announced. "Hoovering's done. Hi, Douglas. Congratulations for what?"

"Oh, good heavens, finally," Carolyn said. She snatched her coat from the rack. "Hurry up, you three. I'll get them settled." She bustled out of the Portakabin, banging the door behind her.

"And the walkaround's done as well," Martin said waspishly, brushing rain from his uniform. "And the charts. And _yesterday's_ charts too. Thanks for showing up, Douglas."

"My pleasure, Martin," Douglas replied.

"Why are we congratulating you, Douglas?" Arthur persisted.

"Certainly not because you turned up on time," Martin said. He took off his hat and shook it out.

Douglas favoured Arthur and Martin with a silky smile. "As it happens, gentlemen, I'm going to be married. I proposed to Fiona this afternoon."

"Wow!" Arthur beamed and enveloped Douglas in a gigantic hug. "That's _brilliant_! Congratulations! Are you going to have the wedding here in Fitton? Are you going to move into her house? It's lots bigger than yours, isn't it? Is Face Forward going to play at the wedding?"

"Dear God, I hope not," Douglas said. "My tolerance for boy bands is low. As to the rest of it, Arthur, we haven't decided yet. One thing at a time. We hope to get married in April. That's all for now."

"That's fantastic, Douglas! Isn't it, Skipper?"

Douglas turned to Martin expectantly. "Well, Martin?"

Martin held his hat in his hands. His mouth opened and closed once, silently, and he swallowed. Under the harsh fluorescent glare of the Portakabin lights, his skin seemed waxen. "Con-congratulations," he muttered, and turned on his heel, leaving the Portakabin without another word.

Arthur grabbed Douglas' hand and wrung it. "That's so great, Douglas! I'd better get back to GERTI before Mum bites my head off. Tell me more on the flight, okay?" He clapped Douglas on the arm and banged out of the Portakabin, leaving Douglas alone.

Douglas looked out at the reflection of the lights on the rainy airfield. 

_At least one person was happy to hear my news._

 

*


	2. Chapter 2

*

 

It was on the tip of Martin's tongue to refuse the lift Douglas offered him, but ultimately, prudence won out over pride. After all, it was bucketing down, his van was still knackered, there would be a forty minute wait for the bus, and given a choice between Douglas' smug preening and Arthur's happy nattering, he'd actually choose Douglas. He climbed into the warm comfort of Douglas' Lexus and buckled the safety belt. "Thanks for the lift," he said grudgingly.

"No trouble," Douglas replied. "Fancy stopping for a takeaway?"

Swiftly, Martin mentally assessed the state of his finances. His van was in the automotive shop, hostage to Trevor the mechanic, who'd agreed to a barter: manifold repair in exchange for Martin's removal services the coming weekend. He had to make the funds from his job last week stretch for another week unless he found something in the meantime, a highly unlikely prospect. By his silent reckoning, he had almost three hundred pounds in the bank, but the rent was coming due, as well as his phone bill in addition to groceries and petrol and sundries. "No, I'm not hungry." He had pasta and sauce at home; that would do nicely.

Douglas glanced at him. "You don't mind if I stop on the way, do you? I realise it's late, but I'm perishing. It might have escaped your attention, but I found the cheese tray noticeably lacking this evening."

"I was too busy flying the aeroplane to take notice of the cheese selection, Douglas," Martin retorted. The journey to and from Nice had been challenging; storms had buffeted GERTI to and fro for the entire duration of the flight, and there hadn't been enough time to achieve a comfortably high altitude, so they'd simply had to grit their teeth and fly through it. Only Douglas' silk-smooth PA stylings (and _yes_ , Martin had to admit, the addition of his steady head and hands as well) had saved the day, distracting Carolyn's posh clients just enough to keep them from raging, weeping, or vomiting. Fortunately, the turbulence had also prevented unnecessary conversation, both from Arthur and Douglas, so Martin hadn't been subjected to tedious and inane wedding chatter. 

"No Camembert, _and_ no Stilton."

"Well, speak to Carolyn if it's bothering you so much."

"It's hardly worth another lecture on my status as beta dog, is it? Anyway, you don't mind if we stop?"

Martin drew a deep sigh. "Of course I don't mind."

"Thanks." Douglas turned smoothly onto the airfield road, and they travelled in silence for a few minutes. Douglas switched on the radio, and spare, slow harpsichord music drifted quietly from the speakers. 

Martin sat back, watched the rhythmic motion of the windscreen wipers ever so slightly out of sync with the music, and felt the tension of the flight beginning to drain from his neck and shoulders. He looked forward to his dinner – he was, in fact, famished – and maybe a video, or some reading, or maybe a round of Flight Simulator.

"Martin?"

"Mm?" Martin replied sleepily.

"You weren't particularly effusive when I announced my impending nuptials, I noticed. Any reason why?"

"Well, it's not really fair, is it?"

"Sorry – _fair_?"

 _Oh, God!_ An electric jolt rocketed through Martin's nervous system, bringing him back to full consciousness. He sat up. "I mean – that is –" What _had_ he meant? "I just mean…it's not really fair…to…to her, is it? After all, you've been married three times already."

Douglas threw his head back and laughed. "Yes, she's well aware of that. In fact, she's been married twice herself. She's scarcely a blushing teenage virgin, Martin."

"She knows you've been married _three_ times?" Martin let indignation creep into his voice, and he felt his hands tightening round the edges of his cap and forcibly relaxed them.

"Helena introduced us. So yes, she does." Douglas looked over at Martin, mischief in his eyes. "Martin, I had no idea you had such a puritanical streak."

"I don't!" Martin protested. "I didn't really mean not fair in that sense. Oh, God, now you're going to use this against me at every opportunity, aren't you?"

"Well, please," Douglas said, "do elucidate. I'm all ears."

 _Oh, God._ "It's going to be a bit of a financial burden on you, isn't it? Three alimonies, your daughter, and a wife as well?"

"Hmm. Your concern is certainly touching, Martin, but I don't think you need worry on that score. Jillian's remarrying this summer, so she's forfeiting alimony. Helena never claimed alimony because she had family money and quite a lot of it. Fiona's got her own money – much more than I've got. That leaves Celine and Verity, and I think I can manage to continue supporting the pair of them." Douglas took his eyes away from the dark, rainy motorway and peered at Martin. "Is that really what you wanted to say to me about all this?"

Confused, unhappy, and practically squirming, Martin shook his head. "Yes! No! I – it's just that…why does everything always –" He bit his lip. "Why does everything always work out for you?"

There. It was out. And that _was_ it, wasn't it? There was Douglas Richardson, self-styled Sky God, with his smart tailored woollen uniform and his late-model Lexus and his house and his salary and his four wives. Practically a harem, except it was one at a time instead of all at once. And here was Martin Crieff, in his polyester uniform, going to eat cheap pasta and play Flight Simulator in an attic. Of course it wasn't ruddy _fair_.

"Ah," Douglas said. "I see." He turned into the car park of a Harry Ramsden's and cut the engine. "You do realise that it's not a zero-sum game? I could be married ten, twenty, a hundred times over and there would still be millions of women left in the world for you to choose from."

"Oh, it doesn't matter," Martin sighed. "You were born under a lucky star, that's all, and I was born under a black hole." He tried not to sniff, but even from inside the car he smelled the delectable aroma of fried food.

Douglas eyed him reflectively. "I'll be back in a moment," he said, and exited the car, leaving Martin alone with the softly lit interior, his growling stomach, and the harpsichord.

"Idiot," Martin groaned, and smote his forehead. The news had thrown him for a loop, that was all, and Martin was simply one of those people who didn't cope terribly well with change. It would probably mean all sorts of solo jaunts for Martin whilst Douglas and his new bride were off honeymooning somewhere glamorous, and afterward Douglas would have lots of excuses not to fly as often. He wouldn't need to with a rich new wife, would he? And that was fine, Martin loved flying, of course, but it meant Douglas would escape the brunt of Carolyn's wrath, the lucky sod, as well as upsetting the schedule.

He'd been too churlish about the matter though, hadn't he? It wasn't the end of the world, after all. Things would settle into a routine eventually, and Martin would forget he'd been so rattled by the announcement. He couldn't apologise without looking like a fool, but he'd try to smooth the awkwardness over by asking some pleasant questions. Pleasant questions, pleasant questions, pleasant questions….

_Are you planning to charter GERTI for your honeymoon, or will you fly commercial?_

_Do you think you'll get married in your uniform?_

_Does Fiona like flying?_ Imagine being married to someone who didn't!

The door opened, and Douglas tucked a brown paper back into the back seat. He got in and deposited another bag on Martin's lap, narrowly missing his cap. "Haddock's yours, I believe."

The smell of batter and chips was celestial; Martin's mouth watered instantly. "I said I wasn't hungry."

"Oh, sorry – I thought you said you _were_. My mistake."

Martin fumbled for his wallet. "How much do I –"

"Oh, it's my error, therefore it's my treat. Put it _away_ , Martin, don't be silly. Good heavens. Let's just see if I can get you home before it gets cold." Douglas pulled onto the motorway again and stepped on the accelerator.

It was all Martin could do not to tear into the fish and chips then and there. He contented himself with inhaling the contents of the bag and knowing he'd be home in just a few minutes. _Oh!_ Questions, he was meant to ask some friendly questions. He racked his brain, trying to remember past the distracting fragrance of the fish and chips. "Erm…Douglas?"

"Yes?"

"What's so fantastic about being married anyway?" _OH HELL._ That wasn't what he'd meant to ask at all! Martin closed his eyes in mortification.

"What's so fantastic about spending your life with the person you love most in the world?" Douglas responded drily. "Gosh, let me think."

"It's only…you've done it three times already."

"Practise makes perfect?"

"Seriously, though."

Douglas shrugged. "What can I say, Martin? Believe it or not, I possess a romantic soul. Somewhere out there is the one for me."

"Fiona."

"Well, I certainly hope so."

Martin shifted restlessly in his seat. "But what if it's not? Why don't you just – I don't know, live with her without getting married?"

"I like being married," Douglas said easily. "I like the wedded state. As a still very-much certified Sky God, I can say with utter surety that domesticity suits me. I find it soothing."

"I'm surprised to hear you say that," Martin grumbled.

"Are you? I can't think why. You've never known me to be a carousing sort. Those days are long over." Douglas pulled up to Martin's house. "Here we are. See you Tuesday, I suppose."

"Yes," Martin said, climbing out of the car. "Thanks for the lift. And dinner."

Douglas saluted Martin briefly, waited for him to close the door, then drove away.

Martin managed to make it up to his room without having to speak to anyone. Glad that the attic was lovely and warm, he hurried into an old jumper and tracksuit bottoms before tearing into his dinner, gigantic portions of haddock, chips, and mushy peas. Douglas had even got him a large coffee. He ate and drank in rapture, the food generously filling the gnawing void in his belly. Thanks to Douglas, he could save half the fish and chips for lunch tomorrow, and save a pound or two in the bargain.

His cheeks burned from more than the attic's warmth and the nourishing food. He'd been downright rude to Douglas, hadn't he? He could have been more enthusiastic about his engagement, less caustic with his observations in the car.

Fetching his phone from his makeshift desk, he flipped it open and sent Douglas a laborious text.

_Please convey my good wishes to Fiona. Congratulations again._

Feeling better, Martin collected the remains of his food and ran downstairs to put it in the fridge, carefully labelling it with his name. He dashed upstairs again and saw that there was a text for him.

 _I'll do that, Martin. Thank you_.

Martin smiled and set his phone down. He was too full and drowsy to play Flight Simulator; instead, he put a stack of records on his old-fashioned hi-fi and lay down on his narrow bed with an aviation magazine, humming along to the music.

_Although some people say he's just a crazy guy_  
_To me he means a million other things_  
_For he's the one who taught this happy heart of mine to fly_  
_He wears a pair of silver wings_  
_And though it's pretty tough, the job he does above_  
_I wouldn't have him change it for a king_  
_An ordinary fellow in a uniform I love_  
_He wears a pair of silver wings._

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from "He Wears a Pair of Silver Wings" sung by Connie Haines, 1942. Listen to it here: https://youtu.be/hqzgz_2HhAU


	3. Chapter 3

*

 

"Hallo!" Douglas let himself into Fiona's and gently elbowed the door shut behind him, burdened with a bulging carrier bag from Cafe Da Lat in one hand and a three-stone bag from Waterstones in the other.

"Hi, darling!" Fiona's voice floated from the second floor. "I'm in the bedroom."

"Are you by any chance naked?" Douglas called hopefully. He set the bags down on her dining table, divested himself of his coat, and made his way toward the curving staircase.

"No such luck, I'm afraid."

Douglas clicked his tongue. "What a shame. Will you be naked shortly?"

Fiona groaned. "You're going to hate me."

"Why's that?" Douglas moved down the corridor into Fiona's bedroom and blinked in bemusement. Clothes lay everywhere: slung over chairs, draped over the bed, hanging in the doorway of the ensuite bathroom. A pile of lingerie in sugar-almond colours drooped at the edge of the bed; shoes surrounded the dressing table, their heels poking out in dangerous profusion. A large suitcase stood sentry beside the balcony door. "Are you moving in with me before the wedding?"

Fiona poked her head out of the loo and offered him an apologetic grimace. "Worst news, darling."

"You're decamping to Paris with one of those ill-mannered urchins you manage."

"Bite your tongue!" She strode out of the loo, distractingly fetching in a café au lait silk dressing gown. "Hello, handsome." She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, nibbling at his bottom lip.

Douglas returned the kiss lingeringly and slid his hands down her body, over the slippery silk. "Why, you lied. You _are_ naked under that." He cupped her bottom and pressed her close.

"Oh, you've got me there."

"Can't fool me. Now what's this dreadful news?"

"Ugh, all right. Sit down." Fiona wriggled out of Douglas' embrace and cleared a space on the bed for Douglas to sit. "Desiderata called me. They want the boys to do a fifteen-city East Asia and Oceania tour." She began ticking off her fingers. "Hong Kong, Seoul, Singapore, Osaka, Tokyo, Kyoto, Sydney, Melbourne, Brisbane, Perth, Wellington, Manila, Honolulu…Christ, what else am I forgetting?"

"Tuvalu?" Douglas suggested. "The Pitcairn Islands?"

Fiona wrinkled her nose at him. "Auckland," she said. "Can't remember the last place. Anyhow – it's a seven-week tour, and a huge opportunity for them, not to mention loads of money, but we've got to leave in the morning."

"Tomorrow morning?" Douglas asked, dismayed. "But –"

"I know. It's rotten." Fiona sat next to him and took his hand. "Look, we don't _have_ to get married the week after that. We can push it back if that's what you want."

"It's not that, darling," Douglas said, and wrapped an arm round her waist. "It's just the prospect of not seeing you for seven weeks."

"Well, I might be able to fly back for a quick visit now and then. No promises." Fiona sighed. "But it does put a crimp in the planning."

"It certainly does," Douglas agreed. Absently, he leant down and sniffed the top of Fiona's head, inhaling her perfume, something sexy and resinous that reminded him of veils and bells on anklets. He wondered if she'd ever consider wearing a sort of harem-girl outfit for him.

"Unless you were to go ahead without me and make the arrangements yourself."

"Hm?" Douglas was still thinking about her in semi-transparent veils.

"You could plan the wedding on your own."

Douglas snapped to attention. "Me?"

"And why not?" Fiona turned to gaze at him, humour and challenge mingled in her eyes.

"Well…I've never done that sort of thing before."

Fiona laughed. "Are you telling me, Douglas Richardson, that you've been married three times and not _once_ have you participated in the wedding planning? I call that chauvinistic indeed."

"I'm certainly not a chauvinist," Douglas protested.

"You call flight attendants 'stewardesses.'"

"Hardly ever."

Fiona folded her arms. "So what did you do – buy the ring and bugger off?"

"To be fair," Douglas said, "my input was never once solicited at any of my weddings. Also, I need hardly remind you, wedding planning is rarely geared toward gentlemen. That heap of magazines I brought for you seems to be aimed only at women. Not one of them has a groom on the cover. One would think that there would be a growing market for men's wedding interests, since there _are_ male-only weddings nowadays. Only seems equitable."

"So you'll do it?" Fiona jumped off the bed and went to her dressing table. Sitting down, she began to sort through a bin of lipsticks, dropping some into a sleek silver bag.

"You seriously want me to?" Douglas glanced round Fiona's bedroom. "It's not that I object to the work, mind you. I just thought you'd be more interested in that sort of thing."

"Look," Fiona said. "I want to marry you in eight weeks. I'm going to be out of town, and you're going to be here, available to deal with the necessities. Thanks to Helena, we've got a venue – all we have to think about are the small details. I can send you my guest list day after tomorrow, you can merge it with yours, we can start there. I trust your taste entirely."

"You do?"

"I ought to. You're marrying me." Fiona grinned.

"I am, that's true," Douglas mused. "Right! I've never planned a wedding before, but what of it? It'll be marvellous. You just choose a dress, darling, and turn up. I'll take care of everything else."

"That's the spirit!" Fiona got up and ran to Douglas, pinning him to the bed. "You are a perfect love."

"Aren't I just?" Douglas said. "By the way, I brought dinner. Spring rolls, ginger chicken soup, lemongrass prawns and veg."

"Ah, you're a prince." Fiona bent and kissed his neck. "Oh! One thing. We should probably decide now how many attendants and groomsmen and so on. I was really only planning on having Polly as matron of honour, if that's all right with you. I didn't want a lot of fuss with bridesmaids."

"Very sensible."

"So that would limit you to a best man."

"Fine."

"Were you thinking of anyone in particular?" Fiona brushed a lock of Douglas' hair away from his forehead.

"Actually, I thought I'd ask Martin." The words were out before the thought had even solidified in his head. _Well, now._ Not that there weren't other options; he had his brother Reg in Swindon, who'd served as his best man at his wedding to Celine, and his mate and former smuggling partner Graeme, who'd been his best man at his weddings to Helena and Jillian. Graeme might take it hard, in fact, if Douglas didn't offer him the opportunity to stand up beside him again. Besides, perhaps third time would be a charm. And Martin was…well, he was a bit of a fusspot, wasn't he? He'd probably insist upon wearing his awful polyester uniform and wind up blurting out the responses during the service ahead of Douglas and Fiona. And then…oh dear God, the best man's speech. No doubt there would be prominent music industry friends of Fiona's at the wedding, and once Martin delivered his speech, they'd never want to come to their house for Douglas' speciality, Cornish pollock done in parchment with anchovy-butter leeks and lemon-chive fingerling potatoes, and Fiona's career would be finished. Douglas opened his mouth to say that he was going to ask Graeme instead.

"Oh, lovely. I like Martin. He's so sweet."

Douglas took a breath. "Yes. He's grand, isn't he?" Maybe it wouldn't be awful. He could coach Martin along. He had eight weeks to do it, after all. "Darling, I was hoping we could involve Verity in the ceremony in some way. She's a bit old to be a flower girl, but as some sort of attendant – give her a chance to wear a pretty dress and be a princess and all that."

"Of course! Stupid of me not to have thought of it." Fiona kissed Douglas' mouth. "See? You're already on top of the most important details. You're going to be brilliant at this."

"Thanks, darling. Listen, you've got a microwave. What do you say we eat in…oh, an hour or two? Then I'll help you pack, very efficiently, and even give you a lift tomorrow morning."

Fiona straddled Douglas' thighs with her own. "Another excellent idea. I'm so glad I'm going to marry you."

"Mm. So am I."

 

*

 

" _Nightmare Abbey Road_ ," Douglas said.

"Oh, that's a good one," Martin replied with a frown. "All right, all right. Give me a minute."

"What's this one, chaps?" Arthur asked, handing each of them a coffee.

"It's a bit free-form," Douglas said. "Starts with a book title and ends with something familiar – a record album, a film, phrase, what have you. For example, I'm three up on Martin with the last one, plus _The Charterhouse of Parma Ham_ and _The Portrait of a Lady and the Tramp._ "

"Oh! I've got one!" Arthur exclaimed.

"Right, let's hear it," Martin sighed.

" _The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde Park._ "

"Not bad," Douglas said, surprised.

"Yes!" Arthur pumped a fist triumphantly. "I'll think of more and be back. Mum's got me passing out biscuits, though. So long, chaps!"

"Damn," Martin grumbled. "Oh – wait, wait! _Catcher in the Rye Bread._ "

Douglas nodded. "Good. Very good. What with that and the Parma ham, all we need is a slice of cheese and we've got a nice sandwich. Wait, I've got it - _Emmantaler._ "

"What?"

"You know, Jane Austen, _Emma_ …Emmantaler cheese!"

Martin stared at Douglas. "Oh, for goodness' sake!"

"Perfectly valid."

"I don't want to play anymore," Martin said sulkily. He depressed the PA button. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain, Captain Martin Crieff. We'll be landing in Portimão in approximately thirty minutes. The local time is eleven-thirty six a.m. For your safety and comfort, we ask that you remain seated with your seat belt securely fastened until the aircraft has come to a complete stop and the Fasten Seat Belt sign has been switched off."

"Of course, the sign's been broken for three weeks, so in this case wait for Carolyn to tell you to shift it," Douglas murmured.

Martin glared at Douglas and continued. "Please take this opportunity to check round your seat for any personal belongings that you might have brought onboard and do please use caution when opening the overhead compartments as contents may have shifted during flight. If you require assistance deplaning, please alert one of our friendly staff –"

"One of them is friendly, at least," Douglas said.

Martin lifted his finger from the button. "Douglas!" he hissed, and depressed the button again. "And they will be delighted to assist you. On behalf of our entire crew, I would like to thank you for choosing MJN Air. Have a pleasant stay in Portugal." He replaced the handset. "You're impossible."

"Just keeping you on your toes."

"Hm." Martin sipped at his coffee and grimaced. "God, this stuff's awful."

"There's a fantastic café in Portimão that serves the best coffee and sandwiches in the city," Douglas said. "Carolyn and Arthur are going to be sightseeing. Fancy stopping off for a long lunch instead?"

"I might do. All right, I will," Martin said. "I could eat a horse. I didn't get breakfast this morning."

"Why ever not?" Douglas asked. 

Martin shrugged. "I only had porridge, you see, and I overslept, because my alarm clock is broken and I set the clock on my phone, but I accidentally turned the volume down all the way, so I didn't hear it when it rang, and I only woke up this morning because the plumbing makes a horrible banging noise when people use it. So thank heavens Simon, one of the ag students, was having his usual six o'clock shower, and that woke me, but there were four other people in the kitchen and there wasn't enough room to make my porridge, and by the time Simon got out of the shower and I got in and out, there wasn't time for breakfast."

"Thank you for that incredibly detailed explanation," Douglas said. "Look, there's something I want to ask you."

Martin peered warily at Douglas. "What is it?"

"Let's save it for lunch," Douglas said drily. "I think we'll both need all our strength."

 

*

 

"You?" Martin said in disbelief. "You're planning the wedding on your own?" He took a huge bite of his sandwich.

"Well, yes," Douglas said. "My darling fiancée is off with the faux-musical sprogs, and I'm here, so it's only fair, really."

Martin shook his head, chewing. He patted his mouth with his napkin. "Did she have to twist your arm to get you to do it?"

"Certainly not!" Douglas scoffed. He leant down and drew a folder from his flight bag. "Have a look at this. It's a wedding plan checklist. Everything one needs to do before the day." He slid the folder over to Martin.

Martin shot Douglas a sceptical look and opened the folder. He glanced at the pages Douglas had torn out from one of the wedding magazines he'd purchased for Fiona that were technically and officially now his. "Douglas…Douglas, this checklist begins a _year_ before the actual wedding. Aren't you getting married in two months?"

"Yes, we are."

"You're never going to have enough time to do everything listed here."

"Well, we're not going to have a hugely elaborate wedding. We've decided to set the guest limit to one hundred total. Very intimate. And we have a venue, thanks to Helena, who's offered her family house just outside Fitton. An Estate, actually, with a capital _E_. So – service and reception location's all sorted, and that's half the battle, really."

"That's not what it looks like here," Martin snorted.

"It does require some organisation," Douglas said silkily.

"I should say so." Martin sipped at his coffee.

"Excellent. Then you'll help?"

"Wh-what?" Martin sat bolt upright. "Help what? With the wedding?"

"Yes. You'd be perfect at it, Martin. You're used to being organised, as an airline captain –" Douglas paused and watched Martin's feathers get a bit shinier and smoother. "—and you've got your side business as well, which certainly involves a lot of moving parts. I should think you're a management guru, in fact."

"Hardly that," Martin demurred, but a slight flush had risen to his cheeks.

"I'm not asking you to do this simply out of the kindness of your heart," Douglas said. "Honestly, I can't do it on my own and I'm feeling just a bit overwhelmed by all of it. As you said, it's a lot. If you do help me, Martin, I'll pay you – four figures. Cash."

Martin looked down at the checklist, his eyes moving from item to item. He looked back at Douglas. "All right. It's a bargain." He held out his hand.

Douglas shook it. "Splendid. We can start right now." He took four of the wedding magazines from his bag and thumped them on the table. "We've got to decide what sort of flowers would be best for table arrangements and decorations and so on. But there's one more thing I've got to ask you first."

Martin sighed. "I might have known there'd be a catch. What is it?"

"Would you be my best man?"

Martin blinked. His mouth dropped open, then he pressed his lips together tightly. "M-me?" he asked softly.

"Yes." 

"Douglas, I – you're not having me on?"

Douglas examined Martin's earnest face, cheeks tinged pink with emotion, eyes oddly bright, and a sudden rush of warmth permeated him. "No. No, Martin, I'm not having you on. I'd be honoured if you'd be my best man. You don't have to say yes, given that you've agreed to do all this other work, but…it would make me happy. Very happy indeed."

Martin took a deep breath. The vivid colour on his cheeks turned even brighter. He nodded. "Yes. Yes, I'd love that."

A funny juddering relief landed unevenly in Douglas' stomach. "Marvellous. It's all settled, then. Let's choose some flowers."

 

*


	4. Chapter 4

*

 

The scent of the flower shop was intense, but not in an oversweet, cloying sort of way. Rather, it was sharp, heady, and almost sour. Martin blinked as he looked about, dazzled by the hundreds upon hundreds of blooms artfully arranged in their tins, brilliant against the black walls. Here and there were tables stacked with heaps of other little treasures as well: candles, oils, soaps, all with pure flower and herb essences, wrapped in the shop's signature black floral paper.

"What do you think?" Douglas murmured.

"It's a bit overwhelming, isn't it?" Martin replied. He touched his finger to the edge of a luscious pink peony, stroking its velvety petals, and whistled softly as he noted the discreet price tag. "Two pounds? Well, that's more reasonable than I thought it might have been." He counted the peonies in the tin. "Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven. Not bad at all."

Douglas lifted an eyebrow. "Martin, that's two pounds per blossom."

"No."

"I'm afraid so."

Martin's mouth dropped open. "That's _insane_. It's one bloody flower, for God's sake! How can they charge that much?"

"Well, aren't you a romantic. When was the last time you got flowers for someone?" Douglas bent and buried his nose in the peony. "Mm."

"I don't know. I don't remember," Martin snapped. "What does it matter? Flowers are a bit impractical, at any rate."

"Not everything has to be practical, Martin," Douglas said with a maddening smile. "Shall we go talk to the sales clerk?"

"No!" Martin hissed, grasping Douglas' arm. "She'll try to convince you to get the most expensive thing here, like dozens of exotic orchids or whatever…Douglas!"

"Yes?"

"I've just had the most brilliant idea. Why don't you smuggle them in?"

"What – exotic orchids?"

"Yes, you could get them straight from Thailand or Brazil or India or wherever. You're used to that sort of thing." Martin whipped out his notebook into which he'd copied the wedding to-do list, uncapped his biro, and lifted his chin, staring Douglas in the eye. There. Problem solved. Martin was going to be the most efficient wedding planner in the history of matrimony.

"Martin, flattered as I am by your confidence in me, I doubt that I'm going to be able to smuggle dozens of orchids under my jacket or in my carryall." Douglas turned back to the peonies.

"You'd save yourself pots of money! Honestly, Douglas, how many flowers are you planning to buy, after all?"

"Well, let's see." Douglas began ticking off his fingers. "The chapel has about room for fifty so that means standing room only for everyone else, and we'd like to limit the guests to a hundred people, tops. So, we'll need flowers for the reception room, in the dining room, on the tables, the mantels, that sort of thing. And a bouquet for Fi, of course." Douglas wandered down the aisle, peering at the lush blooms.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen." The clerk, tall and voluptuous, moved toward them, a sheaf of calla lilies in her arms. She tucked them into a tin and wiped her hands on her green apron. "Was there anything in particular you were looking for?"

Douglas beamed. "Wedding flowers, in fact."

"Oh, lovely, lovely! When is the day?"

"Sixth of May."

The clerk smiled. "Marvellous. And the venue?"

"A house in Bilbrey. Crumbling old barn of a place, but it's got its own chapel and ornamental lake and grand entrance hall and all that."

"Sounds gorgeous. Aren't you lucky." She turned her smile to Martin. "Have you picked your colours?"

Martin frowned at Douglas. "Have you?"

"I'm rather partial to white, though I suppose we should toss an extra colour in there for interest. What do you think, Martin?"

Martin's frown grew deeper. Amazing that Fiona really didn't care about things like that; he thought that most women would have done. "I like blue."

"Hm. We can do hydrangea, lobelia, hyacinths…there aren't lots of _truly_ blue flowers – they tend to edge into purple. But we've got loads of lovely hydrangea if that's what you think you'd like. Have a look at these." She moved to a tin and lifted out a bunch of blue flowers. "Aren't they stunning? I presume this will be for table decoration, vases, that sort of thing?"

"Yes, precisely," Douglas said.

Martin looked at the price on the hydrangeas and reminded himself that the figure was for a single bloom. He felt himself breaking into a sweat. Calculating rapidly for table arrangements for a hundred guests plus mantel decorations plus reception room plus the bridal bouquet, he realised that Douglas was about to spend the equivalent of Martin's rent for two months, possibly three. "They're all so expensive." 

"Well, how many times does one get married?" Douglas asked.

"In your case, four," Martin replied sourly. He looked round the shop. "What about something like that?" He pointed at a stark arrangement. "Something sort of…erm, spare."

"Ikebana?" the clerk asked. "Well, of course. We can do anything you like." She glanced at Douglas.

"Three twigs, two stalks of grass, and a lily?" Douglas said. "I think not."

"It's, erm…elegant," Martin said.

"It's going to get lost in all that eighteenth-century ormolu in the house. Good heavens – is it really the cost that's got you worked up, Martin?"

Martin stepped close to Douglas, not wanting the clerk to hear him. "Douglas, you're going to spend well over a thousand pounds on flowers alone."

"Martin, let's get this out of the way: it's going to be a grand party, and we expected to spend a certain amount of money at the outset. Now, I grant you that it's not an unlimited budget, but we needn't pop into Tesco on the wedding day itself and clean out the day-old section of the floral department."

The clerk coughed. "Gentlemen – sorry. You said the wedding was May sixth, wasn't that right? And it's in the country?"

"That's right," Douglas said.

"Could I make a suggestion?"

"Certainly."

"It's a compromise between thrift and wretched overindulgence. How do you feel about lilacs?"

Douglas and Martin glanced at each other. "I quite like lilacs, actually," Douglas said.

"So do I," Martin said. "My mum had an enormous shrub – really a tree – in her garden."

"The thing is – we could harvest absolute tonnes of them for you at a very reasonable price. You'd have them in white and purple – not quite blue, but close – and I think they'd just be so perfect in a great house, so quintessentially English. If you could get me some photographs of the interior of the house – or if we could make an appointment to see it – I think we can do something wonderful for you."

"Hm." Douglas folded his arms. "I like that. What do you think?"

"How reasonable?" Martin wanted to know.

"Don't worry," the clerk said with a broad grin. "We won't bankrupt you, I promise. Mid three figures, no more. And we can do absolutely lush arrangements at that price. You'll see."

Martin and Douglas exchanged another glance. "I think that sounds very attractive. Martin?"

"Yes," Martin said. "Yes, that sounds very nice."

"Wonderful!" the clerk exclaimed, clapping her hands together. "I must say, it's nice to have a couple who's on the same page so quickly. So often, they're squabbling endlessly, or surrounded by armies of family and friends offering a dozen different opinions – well meaning, but it makes decisions difficult, I can tell you. You two clearly know what you're about. Lovely."

"Oh dear," Douglas said softly.

Martin gulped, and that odd electric jolt zipped up and down his spine again. "I – that is, Douglas and I, w–w–we're not a couple."

The clerk's face fell. "Oh. Oh my. I'm so sorry, I –"

"Not at all," Douglas interposed smoothly. "Martin _is_ my best man, which no doubt accounts for our – erm – synchronicity, I suppose. In fact, I'm the groom, and my fiancée is overseas at the moment. She's left the planning to me. I was hoping to speak to you about a bouquet for her as well, actually."

"Of course!" the clerk cried eagerly, her cheeks intensely red. "Does she have a favourite flower?"

"She's never expressed a preference, as such –"

"Douglas," Martin said, "if you don't need me for this I think I'm going to sit in the car for a bit. I've got a headache. All these flowers." He gestured vaguely around the room.

"There's a coffee shop across the street. Do you want to grab something there and wait?" Douglas peered at him curiously.

"No. No, I think I just need some fresh air. Can I have your keys?"

"Right. Okay." Douglas handed his keys over. "I won't be too long. You're sure you'll be all right?"

"Absolutely. Take your time. Honestly. I don't mind." Martin all but snatched the keys from Douglas' hand and dashed out the door. He gulped in a dose of cold, wet air and shuddered out a funny hiccoughing breath. Moving just a bit unsteadily, he walked to the car, thumbed the lock, and climbed into the passenger seat, falling gratefully into its luxurious embrace.

"Bloody flowers," he muttered. The air was far too close in the shop. They should have had fans going, or a better air circulation system, or something. Martin leant his head back and took a few deep breaths. Better. Much better.

Ridiculous, wasn't it, thinking that he and Douglas were actually…together? Of course Martin blushed and stumbled; leave it to Douglas to pass it off as if it were nothing. Which it was. Obviously. Just a silly mistake on the part of the clerk. He hoped she didn't make mistakes like that all the time. Maybe she was new at her job. Maybe he ought to call the shop and have a word with her supervisor. No, that was ridiculous. It was an honest mistake. Perhaps he and Douglas had actually sounded as though they were choosing flowers together. Which they were. But not like _that_.

"Oh, God," Martin groaned. He was an idiot. Anyhow, he'd never thought of Douglas in that way. Douglas was so…clearly, he was so enamoured of women. All those stewardesses. And any number of other women.

He hadn't been looking at Douglas oddly, had he? Carolyn had told him to stop staring at Douglas and get back to his charts once; crimson, Martin had protested that he had been woolgathering, and Douglas had made a crack about not knowing how much Martin had cared. And the whole thing had been dropped, really, mercifully never to be resurrected again.

Except…Martin _had_ been looking at Douglas. A bit. Just his uniform, really, because it was that dark blue wool and just so smart and crisp, nothing like Martin's sad polyester. Martin envied it.

That was all.

The driver's side door opened and Douglas got in. "Feeling better?"

"Erm…yes, yes, thanks. It was just…lots of scent."

"Yes. Heady stuff. Could I have the keys?"

"Oh, right –" Martin handed over Douglas' keys. "Erm, did you find a nice bouquet for Fiona?"

"Yes, I think we settled on something quite pretty. White camellias, stephanotis, lilies of the valley, and a bit of greenery mixed in for colour. Are you sure you're all right? What do you say we get a bite to eat?"

Martin shook his head. "Actually, I've still got a bit of a headache. Could you just give me a lift home? I think I need to lie down for a while."

"All right." Douglas started the car, and they pulled into the light afternoon traffic. "Sorry about that. Thanks for coming with me."

Martin smiled wanly. "My pleasure. We've got to go to the stationers' on Saturday to choose invitations. Also, do you know who's going to be performing the ceremony?"

"The minister at St Luke Church in Bilbrey. I've already emailed her. Lovely woman."

"Well, that's one thing to check off." Martin drew his notebook from his pocket and found SELECT OFFICIANT. He crossed it out neatly. "Oh – dress for your daughter. I reckon it should harmonise with the lilacs."

"Yes," Douglas said, glancing at Martin. "You know, you really don't have to worry about this now."

"No, I don't mind. Better to keep on top of everything."

"Martin."

Martin frowned down at his list. Perhaps he shouldn't have copied the first checklist he saw. Probably there were more efficient lists out there. "Yes, Douglas?"

"You weren't offended when the florist mistook us for a couple, were you?"

"Me? No! No. No. Why would you think that?" Martin glared at Douglas. 

"I don't know. I only wondered. You denied it rather emphatically." Douglas shrugged. "I hope it's not an issue, that's all. I know you're fussy, but I thought you were broad-minded, at least."

"I am! Of course I am. Obviously I am. It's not an issue. This is the twenty-first century after all, Douglas."

"Good," Douglas said. He was quiet a moment. "Is it me, then?"

Martin gaped. "What?"

"I just thought – you _did_ protest a bit vociferously. If it's not the notion of being thought gay that upsets you, then perhaps it's simply the notion of being linked romantically to me that you find repellent." Douglas offered Martin a sly smile. "Incomprehensible as that seems to me."

Martin's mouth worked, but no sound emerged. Heat bloomed in his face, and the beginnings of a real headache began to claw at his temples. "Douglas…your ego is _truly_ staggering," he finally managed.

"Oh, I'm just having a bit of fun, Martin. Relax." Douglas chuckled.

"I am relaxed," Martin grumbled. He folded his arms over his chest and stared out at the grey afternoon.

Maybe it wasn't too late to bow out of this wedding.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all - I'm afraid updates might be a bit sporadic for the time being as I'm about to begin a six-dose, every-three-week [ideally] round of chemotherapy, and I'm not sure what that's going to do to my writing energy. This story is my first priority, though, so I will work on it as often and as much as I can. Please, please be patient with me. Thank you!


	5. Chapter 5

*

 

"Darling!"

" _Darling_!" Fiona cried warmly. "Oh, thank God, a friendly voice at last."

Douglas chuckled. "Why, whatever's wrong? Trouble shuttling the kiddies through the Pacific Rim?"

"Ugh, it's been a nightmare," Fiona groaned. "Desiderata rented private houses for each of the lads under other names, but the locations got leaked and we've had nothing but phalanxes of screaming fans from morning until night and we've had to scrap the house thing and move them to an hotel after all. Then Dev picked up some sort of industrial-strength hash in Singapore, and he was half a beat behind during the whole show, not that the crowd noticed, but Ivan certainly let me have it, not that I'm their bloody nanny; Cillian wants to bring his girlfriend Tracey on the second half of the tour, but the problem is that Tracey _hates_ Cillian's fangirls with a passion and doesn't hesitate to let them know it, and they return the sentiment with equal fervor; Ewan picked up some sort of rash, apparently – I don't even want to know; and Nick is sulking because he's being stifled as an artist. Simon and Dec are fine. Thank Christ."

"I think," Douglas said, "that you need to pack your bags, abandon those spoiled, snotty, badly dressed brats, and get the next flight back to England immediately." 

"If only I could! Hang on just a second, darling." Douglas heard a rustling, and Fiona's voice, slightly muffled. "No, tell him the latest audits were collected at three, and they need to check with the box office because they just released a block of seats that wasn't needed for lighting." Fiona's voice came back crisply. "Sorry, love."

"Where are you right now?"

"Osaka. The hotel here's meant to have a stellar spa. I'd love to take advantage of it, but I don't think I'll have the time."

"Oh, no. You've got to make time, Fi. An hour or two, surely?"

"I just don't know. Hang on – no, the meet and greet is at seven. Ugh, sorry, Douglas."

"Perfectly all right," he said, wishing he could ask her to move somewhere a bit quieter. "You're holding up all right, though?"

"Oh – yes, I'm fine. Day in the life and all that. How's the wedding prep going?"

"Quite marvellous, actually," Douglas replied. "I've been dragging Martin along with me on a few errands. I've told you how fond he is of organisation."

Fiona laughed. "And is he keeping you in line?"

"He rather is, in fact. He's bloody parsimonious, though. I've had to convince him not to go for the cheapest option at all times." He'd shuddered in horror at the formal dress Martin had picked out for himself after Douglas had firmly quashed the idea of both of them wearing their uniforms. Douglas had a handsome dinner jacket, shirt, studs, and trousers of his own, so he and Martin found a rental shop and searched for a suit for Martin. Unfortunately, Martin's habitual penury and tightfistedness had steered him toward a shiny black wide-lapelled polyester horror; it had taken all of Douglas' considerable skill to prise the thing out of Martin's grip and nudge him toward a tasteful summerweight wool. They were to choose the cake in a few weeks; Douglas was already trembling in anticipatory fear.

"Ah. I appreciate economy, but no, we don't want cheap, do we?"

"He means well," Douglas said gently.

"Oh, of course he does, darling! It's lovely of him to go with you. Hang on – yes, if you've got it now. Oh, Douglas, darling – I've got to go, I'm so sorry. Look, I'll try to call you tomorrow, all right? We're sort of in between things then."

"Absolutely," Douglas said. "Thanks for calling. Do try to get to that spa. Get a massage."

"I will. Love you, darling."

"Love you." Douglas rang off and breathed out. Poor Fi – always on the go. Still, she seemed to thrive on pressure most of the time. Douglas preferred a more relaxed schedule himself; still, they'd work it out. It wasn't a problem whilst they were dating, it shouldn't prove a problem when they actually got married.

Douglas put the kettle on to boil and opened the fridge, looking for a snack. He found an apple and some Cheddar and had just begun to slice the apple when his phone rang. He glanced at the readout and answered. "Hello, Martin."

"Douglas," Martin said, sounding a bit breathless, "get dressed and get to the airfield. Carolyn just phoned me – we're headed to Mauritius."

"Are you assuming that I'm unclothed?" Douglas inquired.

"I – no!" Martin sputtered. "You know what I mean, for goodness' sake. Hurry up, it's someone terribly rich and Carolyn's going to scream blue murder if we keep them waiting."

"Right, right, no need to get shirty. I'm on my way." Douglas rang off and sighed, but found himself whistling as he trotted upstairs to change into his uniform.

 

*

 

Martin sipped at his beer, squinting at the scantily clad tourists as they meandered past, indolent in the heat and sunshine. "Do you think you'd have a honeymoon in a place like this?"

"I don't see why not," Douglas said. "Maybe in one of the less crowded towns, though."

"Would Fiona like it?"

"I think so. Though honestly, I'm having a difficult time picturing her lounging on a beach."

Martin frowned and took another contemplative sip of his beer. "Why's that?"

"Well…she's a more active sort of person. Not sporty, as such, though she does go to the gym – but busy. I think she'd rather be doing things. Riding, perhaps, or examining local historical sites, or shopping in the markets." Douglas had a sudden mental picture of Fiona striding through the streets of Port Louis, simultaneously shopping and conducting Face Forward business on the phone, terrifyingly efficient. She was the sort of woman for whom the word 'multitasking' might have been coined. "Come to it," Douglas said, "I think I'd rather go somewhere more quiet and unspoilt. Maybe somewhere cold, for a change of pace. Iceland? Norway? Finland?" _Somewhere remote, with no mobile phone connections at all._ "We could explore glaciers and fjords and so on. Brisk hiking during the day, warm lodges and good food at night."

"There are seven aviation museums in Norway," Martin said. "I've only been to two of them."

Douglas hid a grin. "I don't know that she'd be keen on aviation museums, Martin." Unbidden, he had a sudden vision – or rather, a series of moving images – of himself and Martin, not Fiona, trudging across a glacier, boating through a fjord, and yes, visiting aviation museums. Another image surfaced – Martin, scarcely visible through clouds of steam in a sauna, parting the towel wrapped modestly around his hips to reveal –

Good _God_.

Douglas took a hasty sip of his iced club soda and became horribly aware of a shocking and inconvenient stirring in his boxers. He glanced at Martin, innocently drinking his beer, and saw that the heat and salt air had corkscrewed his hair into a riot of curls and the effect was becoming. In fact –

 _Christ_!

Martin shrugged. "You never know."

"That's true," Douglas rasped. He leant back, attempting to adjust himself without using his hands.

_Oh, for heaven's sake._

Right, what had brought that on? Oh, certainly he'd enjoyed teasing Martin a bit for being flustered when the flower shop clerk had assumed that he and Martin were a couple. And he'd made that joke about being undressed on the phone. Surely that hadn't been enough for some oddities to insinuate themselves into his subconscious? It had been ages since he'd been with a bloke – that steward before Helena, the blond from Stuttgart with the improbably taut bum. Not that he'd sworn men off – his attraction to women was stronger than his attraction to men, that was all.

But Martin? Honestly….

"The Spitsbergen Airship Museum in Svalbard is only open on request," Martin said eagerly. "It's small, but very focused. One of its exhibits concentrates on the Amundsen-Ellsworth 1926 Transpolar Flight. That's real history, Douglas. Everyone should be interested in that sort of thing." 

Douglas forced himself to look into Martin's eyes, away from his mouth. _Stop it, for God's sake_. "I'll mention it to her, then."

"I'm sure she won't be disappointed," Martin said, then sighed. "Never mind. I'm sure she will. What am I saying? Nobody cares about the history of flight."

"That's not true," Douglas said. "I do. And I think Fi might enjoy that sort of museum. She's awfully bright, you know."

"Oh! Right, of course she is. I didn't mean that she wasn't," Martin said, flushing. "Look, Douglas…I've got to talk to you about something."

"Mm?" Douglas took a kissing sip from his club soda, relieved that his undershorts were beginning to get more comfortable again. An odd blip, that's what that had been. No more.

"It's – it's about the wedding planning, all that. I know you said you'd, erm, pay me, but honestly I'd rather you didn't. I feel a bit…well, I don't feel right taking your money."

A sudden jab of distress pierced Douglas' midsection, but he managed to speak casually. "I realise it can be stressful doing all that planning, but I had hoped that you wouldn't renege, Martin."

"No, no! I mean that I'd still be glad to help you, but I-I-I'd really rather you didn't pay me, I mean I don't want your money. It's not that stressful, and besides, I don't mind doing it." Martin ran a hand through his bright curls.

Douglas gave an inward sigh. Martin was proud – touchy, at that – but poverty-stricken. Douglas had seen his horrible little bedsit, his tragic van, the painstaking economy with which he chose his food and drink when they were out and about. The beer he was consuming, for example, was the cheapest the bar offered, and he'd refused Douglas' offer to pay. If Carolyn hadn't sprung for the hotel room – not rooms, mind, _room_ , with two beds – Martin would no doubt be sleeping on GERTI. "It's a job, Martin," he said quietly.

"But you're my friend, Douglas. And friends don't charge for things like that. I-I'm happy to do it. I really am." Martin gazed at him earnestly, clasping his bottle of beer between two hands. "Even though I think you're being awfully extravagant about certain things."

"You know, I did a little research of my own. Do you know what the average cost of a wedding is in the UK?"

"No."

"Twenty-four thousand pounds."

Martin grew pale. His mouth worked, but no sound emerged.

"Thought that might startle you a bit." Douglas took another sip of his drink.

"That's…outrageous!" Martin croaked weakly.

"I'm inclined to agree, which is why I think we've done rather well thus far. We've got the venue for nothing, the flowers for half nothing, I've got my own togs – I know we've a ways to go, but still it's not bad, all in all."

"I don't make half that with Icarus Removals in a year," Martin murmured, his expression forlorn.

 _Which is why I wish you'd let me pay you_ , Douglas thought, but tactfully refrained from saying aloud. "All I'm saying is that you needn't be so…careful."

"Implying I should be care _less_?" Martin retorted.

"No," Douglas said, "but it's our money, Fiona's and mine, and we'd like to have a grand party. So please, Martin, don't feel so bound by budget."

Martin's cheeks grew pink again. "You're right. It's not my money at all. I've been proceeding as if it were. I'm sorry."

Douglas smiled. "Perfectly all right. I know you're just looking out for us. I appreciate it."

"Yes," Martin said softly, and gazed down into his beer. "That's all."

 

*

 

It wasn't that he minded sharing a room, exactly – Martin didn't snore and he was neat in his personal habits and didn't commandeer the loo for hours – but Carolyn's tightfistedness made Douglas feel like an unwilling participant at sleepaway camp. 

Douglas folded the light quilt down and climbed into bed, checking his phone for messages. There was a text:

_Miss you, darling. Talk tomorrow? XXXX_

He smiled and tapped out a reply.

_Miss you as well. Absolutely. XXXXX_

If they got five minutes of actual conversation he would count himself lucky. He couldn’t wait until that bloody tour was over and done with.

Martin emerged from the loo, dressed similarly to Douglas in a t-shirt and boxer shorts. "It's a bit warm for pyjamas," he said apologetically.

"No, of course," Douglas said, averting his eyes from Martin's legs. Had he actually seen Martin's bare legs before? They weren't quite as….spindly as Douglas had imagined. Not that he'd imagined them, really, only – 

_Good LORD._

"It is warm," Douglas said. "You can adjust the air con if you like."

"No, I like the open window. You can almost hear the sea." Martin smiled. "Do you need anything?"

Douglas set his phone down. "No, thanks. I've set my alarm for seven. Will that work for you?"

"Yes, fine." Martin pressed his lips together, then turned, displaying his bum. A bit lost in the too-loose boxer shorts, but –

_STOP._

"Very well," Douglas said. "Good night, Martin."

Martin got into bed, pulling the covers over his legs, then turned out the light. "Good night, Douglas."

Douglas was glad for the darkness; it concealed another inconveniently burgeoning erection. _All right, this is just ridiculous._

He turned onto his side, away from Martin, and conjured an image of Fiona, wearing nothing but a pair of filmy underwear and high heels. Surreptitiously, he pressed his hand against his cock and focused on his future bride.

 

*


	6. Chapter 6

*

 

"Shouldn't this be a sort of…I don't know, girls' outing?" Martin whispered urgently, taking refuge behind a rack of fluffy dresses.

Douglas sighed. "Oh, for heaven's sake, Martin, you're being absolutely ridiculous. First of all, I've been shopping for Verity's clothes since she was born. Second, this is just another part of our planning excursions, so buck up and help us find something pretty."

"But I don't know a thing about women's clothing," Martin groaned.

"Whereas you're an expert in flower selection? Really, Martin. Trust my taste. Darling," Douglas called, "what do you think of this?" He pulled a pale lilac creation from the rack Martin was using as a barrier and held it up.

Verity Richardson, slumped on an elegant little velvet and gilt sofa, rolled her black-rimmed eyes and returned to her book. "No way," she said flatly.

"You hardly looked at it," Douglas said.

"I looked at it long enough to know that it's disgusting and I wouldn't be caught dead in it," Verity retorted.

Martin peered curiously at Verity. It had been a year or more since he'd last clapped eyes on her, and in that time she'd transmogrified from an enthusiastic, happy-go-lucky girl into a sullen Goth sort. Tall for her age and a bit plump, she wore layers and layers of black, from the knitted cap atop her head to the fishnet tights and thick clompy boots on her feet. Her short, chewed nails were varnished black, as was her hair; Martin had vaguely recalled it being a medium brown last time he'd seen her. "Not really sure that dress was quite her style, Douglas," he murmured.

Douglas' mouth tightened. "Her style is black, black, and more black, and that's perfectly fine for every day, but if she's going to participate in the wedding she's got to wear something appropriate for the occasion." He shuffled through the rack and came up with a darker lilac dress with rosettes at the bodice and a huge skirt. "What about this, love?" 

"No."

"Right," Douglas said, and hung the dress up. "Where's that saleswoman?"

"Shall I go look for one?" Martin asked, eager to be free from Verity's aura of boredom and hostility. It was just an adolescent thing, he supposed; he remembered Caitlin going through a snotty phase, and Simon too, but it was uncomfortable to watch Douglas subjected to it – odd that he wasn't using his customary arsenal of barbs and ripostes in dealing with Verity's sullenness. On the contrary – he treated her with extreme gentleness and acted as if she weren't dripping with ennui. It was extraordinary.

"No, no need. We'll manage until she comes along."

"Erm…shouldn't her mum be helping her with this too?" Martin ventured.

"Celine has given up on any attempts to direct or guide Verity's wardrobe," Douglas murmured. "She can't cope with the lack of colour."

"What if she just wore something black? She doesn't seem to like what you've chosen so far."

"To a wedding? Martin, I don't consider myself hidebound but that's a bit funereal, don't you think?"

Martin smiled wryly, thinking of parental wishes and the van and multimeter his dad had left him. "I don't know. Does it matter so much?"

Douglas blew out a breath, and his shoulders sagged slightly. "I don't know. I don't want to make her unhappy, but it's just not quite –"

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," a voice said, and Martin and Douglas turned to see a smartly dressed saleswoman beaming at them. "May I help you?"

"Why, yes," Douglas said, straightening and smiling. "I'm getting married very soon –"

"Oh, how lovely. Congratulations."

"Yes, thank you. My daughter is going to be a bridesmaid. She's the only one, so there's no need for matching dresses or any of that and the bride has given her carte blanche – we just need to find a lovely frock for her to wear."

"Marvellous! And your colour scheme?"

"Lilac and green."

"Very spring-like. Well, we've got several very nice models here –" The saleswoman gestured at the rack. "Is your daughter with you?" 

Douglas nodded. "Verity," he called, "would you come over here, please?"

Martin heard Verity heave a long-suffering sigh, and then heard the shuffling of her boots along the carpet. The saleswoman's eyes widened slightly before she slipped a professional smiling mask on again. "We've got our work cut out for us, haven't we!" she exclaimed. Martin tried not to wince visibly, but goodness, she might have been a bit more…sensitive. Verity hunched her shoulders and stared down at the carpet, and Douglas evidently hadn't heard, so intently was he digging through the rack of dresses. Martin inspected them with some misgiving. They all looked too frothy for a girl like Verity.

"What about this?" Douglas offered, holding up another lilac-coloured frock. This one had an almost floor-length skirt and a bodice dusted with tiny diamantes. 

Verity's upper lip curled. "No."

Smiling, Douglas turned to the saleswoman. "Maybe you can help us find something appropriate for a young lady."

"These are some of the prettiest things we carry in the colours you want," the woman said. "I'm really not sure…but if you'll wait a moment or two, I can look in the stockroom and see what else we might have."

"That would be lovely. Thank you." Douglas hung the dress up and put an arm round Verity's shoulders. "Look, darling, I know none of these dresses are your usual style, but you'll find something tolerable." He kissed her cheek.

"They're all just so gross, Dad," Verity said plaintively.

"Well, let's see what she brings out," Douglas said, and nodded toward the saleswoman, now in conference with another employee at the back of the shop. Martin saw the woman murmur something behind her hand, flicking a mean and crafty glance at Verity, and the two of them laughed. The saleswoman saw Martin watching, stopped abruptly, and hurried back into the stockroom.

Sudden ferocity sent a hot blush into Martin's cheeks, as if he'd been the one they'd laughed at. "Douglas – I think we should leave."

Douglas frowned at Martin. "Why on earth?"

Martin realised he couldn't expose the woman's nastiness without embarrassing Verity. He decided to improvise. "I…I've got a headache. I think we need to eat. It _is_ lunchtime – you've had us running since nine."

"Heavens. I didn't realise I'd put Sir in such a stressful situation. My most abject apologies. Do you think you can wait two minutes whilst the saleswoman brings out the dresses she promised?"

"I'm hungry too, Dad," Verity said. "Can't we do this another time?"

Douglas sighed. "I'm getting a bit peckish myself, I suppose."

"Great!" Martin said in much too enthusiastic a tone. "There's a café just down the road. Come on, Verity." He swept an arm out; bemused, Verity tugged her cap down, hitched her black rucksack over her shoulder, and trudged out of the shop. "I don't think the dresses here are very pretty anyhow," Martin said loudly. The saleswoman at the back of the shop raised her eyebrows.

"Martin!" Douglas whispered.

"Come on, Douglas," Martin said firmly, and left the shop, waiting just outside the door. 

Douglas emerged into the sunshine, staring at Martin as if he'd suddenly begun babbling in Sanskrit. "What in God's name is wrong with you?"

Martin tightened his mouth. "I told you – I've got a headache. Come on, your daughter's waiting."

 

*

 

They ordered sandwiches and tea, and the food had just arrived when Douglas' mobile rang. He glanced at the readout and beamed. "Hello, love!" he said, getting out of his chair. He covered the phone. "I'll be a bit. Just eat without me." He returned to his call, walking out of the café. "God, it's good to hear from you!"

"He'll be hours," Verity said, and pulled out her book. She bit into her sandwich and started to read, then put the book down. "You didn't have to do that."

Martin blinked. "Do what?"

"I saw her. Laughing." She shrugged. "I don't care."

Somehow, remembering all the times he'd been mocked for his height, for his mop of ginger curls, for his flying aspirations, for the million and one things that made him who he was and that he was unable to change, Martin doubted that. "Well, I do. She was – she was ruddy bad-mannered and I don't see any reason why you should put up with that for a moment."

"I don't even want to be in this stupid wedding anyway."

"Why not?"

Verity shrugged again. "Dunno."

Martin probed. "Don't you like Fiona?"

"She's all right. I hardly know her." Verity took another bite of her sandwich, then a sip of tea.

"Does it, erm, bother you that your dad's getting married again?"

"Not really. I don't care. The whole thing's stupid." Verity was silent for a moment. "I mean, why can't he just live with her? The whole thing's stupid. It's like he's got to prove something. I don't know."

Martin swallowed some tea. "I thought that at first too," he said softly. "And then, well, I realised that Douglas – your dad – is just the sort of man who has…erm, I suppose it's an abundance of-of love. And he shows it in all sorts of different ways, you see. He's still on good terms with your mum, and with his other ex-wives too, and that's quite special, isn't it? Quite extraordinary. And then of course, there's you."

Verity frowned. "What d'you mean?"

"He can't say enough about you. That is, enough good. You'd think the sun rose and set on your command."

A faint blush rose to Verity's cheeks, and she shuffled her feet and took another bite out of her sandwich.

"Then there's Arthur and Carolyn," Martin went on hastily. "He doesn't say it outright, but I know he'd do absolutely anything for them. He's saved their bacon in lots of ways already, and if I know anything about him, he'll do it again. They're like family to him."

Verity was eyeing him reflectively. "What about you?"

"Me? What about me?"

"Are you family too?"

It was Martin's turn to flush. "I-I don't know. We're, erm, friends I think. That is, he asked me to be his best man, so I suppose we're friends. I don't know about family. I don't know. But, erm, you see, that's just the way he is, just the way he expresses himself, romantically. I think it means a lot to him to have a family around him." Martin picked up his sandwich and put it down again, a funny lump in his throat and chest.

"Yeah. I guess. It's still stupid that I have to wear some stupid meringue, though."

"Look at it this way. It's only for one day, and it would make your dad happy." Martin returned to his sandwich. He was fine. Perfectly fine. Fine.

"I just don't see why I can't wear something cool."

"Surely there must be something you'd like," Martin said, perplexed. Women's fashion escaped him entirely; all the dresses Douglas had pulled out had looked vaguely alike.

"Maybe in London," Verity said gloomily. "Not in Fitton." She finished her sandwich, leaving the ends. "It's all the same fluffy rubbish."

"Perhaps you and Douglas can take a look round the shops in London, then," Martin suggested.

Verity snorted. "He doesn't want to drag me about all day. He wants it done and dusted. He's trying to be nice, but he's not going to spend an entire day looking for a dress. And he won't let me go on my own."

"I could talk to him." Martin wasn't sure what that would accomplish, but he had a feeling that Verity was selling her dad a bit short. "Give him a chance."

"Thanks anyway." Verity waved, and Martin looked over his shoulder and saw Douglas heading back, still talking on the phone. Martin gulped down the rest of his sandwich and finished his tea as Douglas sat and mouthed _I'm starving_.

Martin stood. "Shall we go for a stroll? Leave Douglas to his sandwich and conversation?"

"I guess." 

"Come on, then." Martin dropped a twenty-quid note on the table and darted out of the café before Douglas could protest. Douglas had been picking up the tab for everything; it was beginning to make Martin feel terribly uncomfortable. He waited outside for Verity. "Up the high street?"

"All right. There are some cool shops."

They went into a secondhand music and book shop and browsed a bit; Martin found an LP of Second World War love songs in great condition, reasonably priced, and Verity got a copy of Christopher Isherwood short stories and a CD of Twenties jazz. They glanced at each other's purchases but said nothing, and made their way semi-companionably up the high street once more. 

Verity paused at a vintage clothing store. "Mind if I pop in here for a moment?" She asked the question with a certain hesitation, as if she were afraid Martin would say yes, he minded terribly. Martin smiled and held the door open, and she went in, returning the smile shyly.

She really wasn't a thing like Douglas at all in temperament, but when she smiled, Martin caught a glimpse of Douglas' twinkle in her eyes. Oh, goodness, all those teenaged hormones running rampant. Martin supposed he was lucky that he'd been so focused on flying, even when he was Verity's age. It had saved him from lots of embarrassing fumbling, probably, not that he'd had the courage to approach many people…or indeed anyone at that age. God, he'd been backward. 

He still was, come to it.

Martin sighed and closed the shop door behind him. He blinked at a chaotic impression of wild color: spangles and feathers and satin and velvet dresses, rows of old-fashioned hats and gloves draped over handbags, racks of sparkling jewellery. The shop's sound system was playing Elvis Presley's 'Teddy Bear.' It didn't seem very much in tune with Verity's costume of black atop black, but he wasn't about to remark upon it. 

"Hello!" A young woman came sailing out of the back, beaming. Martin blinked: she looked like the cover of one of his 1940s LPs. Bright red hair caught up in a net at the back, with fat swoops of sausage curls in the front, bright red lipstick, an old polka-dotted dress that hugged her curvy body tightly, and old-fashioned court shoes. She turned to Verity. "Hello, darling, are you looking for anything in particular?"

Verity shook her head. "Just looking," she muttered, and Martin winced in preparation for another bout of rudeness.

"Right, let me know if I can help you find anything. If you haven't been here before, everything's laid out by decade." She tapped her finger in the air. "Victorian, Edwardian, Twenties, Thirties, Forties, Fifties, Sixties, Seventies, Eighties. The accessories are near-ish the clothes, but no promises." She grinned easily at Verity. "I'll leave you to it. Give us a shout if you want help." She retreated behind the counter, popped on a pair of cat-eye glasses, and buried her nose in a book.

Martin moved to Verity's side. She was stock-still, frozen in seeming indecision. "Did you want her to help you?"

"No," Verity whispered, twisting the plastic of the carrier bag that contained her book and CD in her hands.

"Should we go back to the café?" Martin was confused.

"Could I just…look for a minute?"

"Of course. I've got my phone and you've got yours as well. He can text if he can't find us." Puzzled, Martin waited for Verity to move. "Is there an, erm, a decade you want to look at?"

Verity nodded and headed toward the rear of the shop. She stopped at a rack of dresses and sighed audibly.

Martin looked at the sign on the rack: **1920s** , in Art Deco type. "You like these clothes?"

"Yeah. Twenties, Thirties. I saw this old movie the other day, _Cabaret_. It was so cool. The clothes…." Verity began to sort through the dresses. Her fingers touched the old fabrics reverently. 

Martin thought he was beginning to understand. Maybe this sort of thing was Verity's flying. The book, the CD, these clothes…he didn't know how to talk to her about it, he didn't speak the language, but he understood passion. "That one's pretty," he said, taking out an olive-green chiffon dress.

Verity regarded it critically. "It's gorgeous. Tiny though."

_Ah._ "You need to find the perfect one for you, then." Martin began looking through the dresses more earnestly. They _all_ looked tiny. Ruddy hell.

The shop clerk had come up beside them. "Are you looking for something for a special occasion?"

"No," Verity said quickly, and then said, "Well. Yes. For my dad's wedding. I mean…I'd like to wear something different, but these all look really small."

"Hm. Let's see. Not _everyone_ was wee back then." The clerk carefully pushed dresses aside. "No black, I'm guessing?"

"He'd rather I didn't wear black," Verity said. "But if it's all you have…."

"There's this." The clerk pulled a dress out. It was a sort of mauve, sleeveless, with black netting and sequins sprinkled over it.

Verity gasped. "Oh my God. It's brilliant." Her face fell. "But it still looks too small."

The clerk eyed Verity sharply. "Let's get in a dressing room, darling, so you can take off those seven veils you've got on. And if worse comes to worst, the _truly_ brilliant thing about this dress is the way it's cut. See this?" She showed Verity the seams. "Straight up and down, no darts. We can put a panel of black paillette fabric on either side for a bit of give. I do alterations."

Verity touched Martin's arm. "Martin, could you go get my dad? Please?"

Martin wanted to hug her or stroke her head, but that was a bit absurd, wasn't it? Instead, he smiled. "I'll be right back."

 

*

 

"Shannon approach, this is Golf Echo Romeo Tango India. Climbing to six thousand feet, left turn, direct Avoca."

"Roger, Golf Tango India."

"Thank you." Martin sighed and sat back.

"Post take-off checks complete," Douglas said. He turned to Martin. "Verity was asking all sorts of questions about you the other day."

"Really? What sort of questions?"

"She wanted to know the year you became an airline captain, and what your score was on the CPL examination."

"She did?" Martin blinked in surprise. "Did I tell you those things?"

"Of course she didn't, you ninny," Douglas snorted. "She wanted to know what it was like working with you, what you did for fun, if you had a significant other, that sort of thing."

"Oh." Uncomfortable warmth rose in Martin's face. "Erm…I hope you didn't actually tell her the truth…." He chuckled uneasily.

"I did, in fact."

"Oh."

The flight deck door opened, and Carolyn popped her head in. "This is a pre-emptive warning," she said. "Arthur is having a stab at dinner, so don't be alarmed at any unusual odours in the next few minutes."

"Not to mention flavours," Douglas said nonchalantly.

"That too," Carolyn said, and shut the door.

"God help us all," Douglas said.

"I had a good time at lunch with you and Verity," Martin said. "And shopping, too."

"Yes, about that," Douglas said. "I don't know what part you played in finding that dress, Martin –"

Martin tensed.

"But whatever you did, or said, it was a stroke of genius. I'm happy, Verity's delighted, and she's going to look lovely."

"I didn't do anything," Martin confessed. "She asked to go into the store, and I just went along with her."

Douglas lifted an eyebrow. "Must have been more than that. She seems to think awfully highly of you."

"Well, she's –" Martin caught himself staring at Douglas' face, at his eyes, so like his daughter's – or Verity's were like his. That twinkle when he smiled. Martin realised that he found himself waiting for it, and felt rewarded when he saw it. That he looked forward to their absurd word games, no matter how often Douglas won or how much he teased Martin. That he got a funny ache in his chest when he looked at Douglas, and an even funnier ache when he'd been away from Douglas for more than a few days. That Douglas' opinion was the first he sought on any matter, and in the end, the one he valued the most. That the burning sensation in his heart when he thought of Douglas marrying someone else wasn't jealousy that Douglas was marrying yet another woman whilst Martin had married none at all.

"Yes?" Douglas cocked his head to one side inquisitively.

"She's splendid, Douglas, obviously. You have control." Martin got up and locked himself in the loo. He leant against the mirror and stared at his ridiculous reflection.

_Oh, you absolute idiot._

He waited for a moment and splashed his blotchy face liberally, then dried off, hoping Douglas wouldn't notice the telltale redness in his eyes.

 

*


	7. Chapter 7

*

 

"I'm not saying it would be an unmitigated disaster," Douglas said. "I'm simply suggesting that it would be prudent to seat our employers at separate tables." Scanning the seating chart, he grimaced. "Actually, it would be ideal if they never met at all. Can we put Carolyn and Arthur in the conservatory and, oh, I don't know – leave them there for the duration of the reception?"

"Douglas, that's terrible. Of course you can't do that," Martin scolded.

"What's so awful about having them there anyhow?" Verity inquired from her spot on the sofa. "I like Carolyn. She's hilarious."

"Precisely. The last thing I need is Carolyn telling Fiona's managing director one of her terribly droll stories about my smuggling mishap with Air England, or the little corpse debacle –"

"Those were both true, to be fair," Martin pointed out.

"Yes, I'm _aware_ , Martin," Douglas replied peevishly. "Still, there's no need to rehash them on my wedding day. And that's not even counting what Arthur might say – and he doesn't even need a drink or two to loosen his tongue."

"Herc will be there, as a steadying influence," Martin said, and patted Douglas' knee in a comforting fashion. "Don't worry." He flushed and pulled his hand back quickly. "Sorry," he muttered.

"It's fine," Douglas said, striving for offhandedness. But his knee felt both hot and cold, the concentrated presence and absence of Martin's touch. Furtively, he glanced at Martin's hand, nervously rubbing the length of his slim jeans-clad thigh. Heat rising in his own face, he harrumphed and turned to Verity, draped over the sofa. "I thought you were meant to be helping with this, young lady."

"You both crowded me out. I made the dance playlist, though, for late night after the quintet."

"Not all Bix Biederbicke, I hope. I know jazz is your current obsession, but –"

"Come on, Dad," Verity said scornfully. "What sort of idiot do you take me for? There's lots of stuff you both like. Mostly stuff Fiona likes since you're not a big pop fan."

"Thoughtful of you, darling," Douglas said. "Even that gloomy fellow she admires so much?"

"Well…more of the Smiths. Morrissey's solo stuff is harder to dance to."

"I'm sure she'll be eternally grateful." Douglas blew Verity a kiss. It wasn't easy to get an adolescent girl to throw herself enthusiastically into the spirit of her father's fourth wedding, and he couldn't blame her, but the purchase of the dress, and oddly, Martin's presence, had brought her just a bit out of her shell. Martin was the oddest ally for her, but Douglas was grateful to him.

Grateful, yes. He wondered now about Martin's protestations in the flower shop, his indignation at being mistaken for gay, the blush that still lingered in his cheeks.

Martin shuffled paper place settings around the floor. "Have you two got a special song you plan to dance to?" 

Douglas wrenched his gaze from Martin's face and slid Carolyn's place setting to another table. "Not as such. Funny, isn't it? We'll just play something lovely and romantic." He heaved himself to his feet with a grunt, glad to get off the floor, and went to the piano to shuffle through some books. "I suppose I should find something a bit first dance-ish. 'The Way You Look Tonight?'"

"Clichéd," Verity said.

"A solid no from the Verity camp. A waltz, perhaps? Strauss' opus 437?"

Verity made a face. "The Emperor Waltz? I mean, it's pretty and all, Dad, but it's too bloody long and it hasn't got any words. People like words to wedding dances."

"And I don't suppose you'd be keen on playing whilst we danced, Mademoiselle Wedding Dance Expert." Douglas eyed Verity hopefully. She was a fine pianist, but hadn't played in a recital in nearly a year; maybe his wedding would end her rebellious streak.

"Not unless you're paying me," Verity snorted.

"What a cynical child I've raised. Fifty quid?"

"Never mind, no thanks. Use the quintet. That's why you're hiring them."

"Hmph." Douglas continued to page through music. "Ah. Here's one." He settled the sheets and flicked on the light. "Still a waltz, but it's got _words_." He began to play, a pretty, light melody, and then, just because, began to sing.

"When I was young  
My foolish fancies used to make  
A great mistake  
But now a little love  
A little living  
Has changed my ways and taught me  
And brought me  
The joy of giving…."

Martin turned toward him, his face wreathed in a grin. "For goodness' sake, Douglas!"

Douglas couldn't help grinning back. "You remember?"

"How could I not? Holbox!"

A few months ago, they'd got stuck on Holbox Island in Mexico delivering a recluse to her winter house in the off-season; GERTI had broken down, and they'd had to wait two days for parts. The tourists were few and far between, and they'd had most of an inn on a marvellous beach to themselves (no Arthur or Carolyn, astoundingly), along with spectacular fish tacos and a tinny, warped piano. The song, an old Ivor Novello classic, had been one of the few pieces of sheet music there, and Douglas had amused himself with it and simultaneously discovered Martin's love of Thirties and Forties standards. They'd had a splendid time.

"I can give you the starlight  
Love unchanging and true  
I can give you the ocean  
Deep and tender devotion  
I can give you the mountains  
Pools all shimmering and blue  
Call and I shall be  
All you ask of me  
Music in spring  
Flowers for a king  
All these I bring to you."

Douglas' voice was a bit rusty, particularly on the higher notes; he hadn't sung in ages. He managed a reasonable facsimile nonetheless, and flourished his way through the instrumental as Martin rose to his feet and moved toward the piano.

"Do you really think you'd use that as your first dance?" Martin asked.

"Certainly not, this is –" Douglas stepped on his words, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to hurt. He looked down at the keyboard, then at the music, frowning as if he were concentrating.

A lie. He knew this music up, down, and sideways by now. He'd played it almost incessantly when he'd got home from Mexico. Why? It was a pretty tune, that was all.

Of course.

"I think Fi might prefer something more modern," Douglas said, and went back to the coda, singing more softly now, still avoiding Martin's eyes.

"I can give you the mountains  
Pools all shimmering and blue  
Call and I shall be  
All you ask of me  
Music in spring  
Flowers for a king  
All these I bring to you."

The last note reverberated sweetly in the air as Douglas withdrew his hands from the keyboard. "Perhaps Fi has something in mind," he murmured. He glanced up at Martin and saw, with some alarm, that Martin was beet-red. _Oh, dear._

"Yes. Yes." Martin nodded jerkily and wheeled away from the piano. "That's her area of expertise, after all. Erm, look, Douglas, I had better go. It's getting late, and we can work on these another time, can't we?"

 _Oh, good Lord. I'm not imagining things, am I._ "Of course." He thought about making some sort of witty jab, but God help him, he didn't have it in him, and at the moment Martin was far too vulnerable a target.

 _What on earth is WRONG with me?_ Douglas stole a look at Verity, but she was reading her book, almost too studiously, as if she had no intention of being caught spying. He sighed, then jumped as the doorbell shrilled. "Now who could that be?" he groaned, and got up to answer.

Fiona stood on the doorstep, chic as chic could be in a toffee suede coat and a cream dress. "Darling!"

"Oh. Oh, my word!" Douglas took Fiona in his arms and kissed her cheek. "Darling, I didn't expect you at all!" He swung her in a half-circle and peeked at Martin, who was struggling into his jacket, still crimson-faced and who was now staring at him and Fiona. He caught Douglas' eye and looked away. "Did the infants get caught with their hands in the biscuit tin?"

"I should be so lucky!" Fiona said, and held Douglas away. "Let me look at you. No, it's just a brief break – four days, which actually means two days and two days of travel, but I wanted to surprise you."

"You did indeed. You caught us in top-secret wedding plans." He inhaled the scent of her fragrance, mingled with the aroma of her skin and shampoo. Lovely. Yes, this was…this was right. It was wonderful to see her.

"So I see! Hello, Martin. How are you?" Fiona strode toward Martin, embraced him, and kissed him on the cheek. "I can't tell you how grateful I am that you're assisting this man of mine with all these details. I know it can't be that much fun for you."

"N-no, I don't mind," Martin said. "Sorry, I've really got to go. It was, erm, nice to see you, Fiona. See you day after tomorrow, Douglas. 'Bye, Verity."

"'Bye, Martin," Verity called.

"Goodbye, Martin," Douglas echoed, and felt a pang as Martin left. He shouldn't have played that song. What on earth had possessed him? It was as if he were intent on setting himself up for…well, for turmoil of some sort. It was the purest foolishness. He turned back to Fiona. "I can't believe you're here, love."

"Just for two days. I'm only stopping by for a moment. I didn't say hello to you, Verity." Fiona moved to the sofa and kissed Verity's cheek; Verity offered it up obligingly enough. "I've got to stop home for a bit, but perhaps the three of us can go for dinner?"

"No, I'm going back to Mum's tonight. Thanks though," Verity said.

"Are you certain?" Fiona asked.

Verity lifted an eyebrow, a facial gesture she seemed to have picked up from Douglas, he noted wryly. "I'm pretty certain you two would rather have dinner on your own. I appreciate the offer though."

"Just so you know you're welcome any time."

"Thank you, Fiona," Verity replied politely. "Mum will be here in about an hour."

"Right. Well…I'll see you later? Round eight? I'll fetch you." Fiona gave Douglas a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Indeed. You're very fetching." Douglas walked Fiona to the door. "See you at eight." He watched her climb into her car and drive away, then turned back to see Verity watching him intently. "What is it, sprog?"

"Don't get cross."

"I would never." Douglas seated himself next to her. _She doesn't like Fi. Jealous, perhaps. Well, it's to be expected with adolescent girls._

"You do love her, don't you?"

"I – of course I do." Douglas turned to Verity. That wasn't the question he'd expected. "What makes you think I don't?"

Verity looked away. "I didn't…I just want you to be sure, Dad. And happy and all."

Douglas grinned broadly and leant forward to hug Verity tightly. "Silly girl. Of course I'm sure. You're sweet to be concerned."

"Okay." Verity returned the embrace and sat back. "What happened in Holbox?"

"Holbox? Oh…GERTI broke down, and we got stuck there for two days. It was a blasted nuisance, mostly," Douglas said. He remembered Martin in shirtsleeves, his awful polyester trouser legs rolled up to the calf, his shins sunburnt from wading in the blue, blue water, leaning quietly against the warped upright and listening as Douglas played song after song.

"What are you smiling at?"

Douglas blinked. "Was I smiling? I hadn't realised. Well, you know how awful trips turn out to be funny stories after the fact." He got up and went to the piano to put the music away. "We’ve really got to come up with a first-dance number, I suppose. It's the sort of thing people expect. I'll ask Fi what some of her favorite romantic songs are tonight."

Verity regarded him with a strangely inscrutable and adult expression on her face. "Good idea, Dad."

 

*

Sweating and spent, Douglas closed his eyes and drew a deep breath as Fiona collapsed beside him. "My goodness."

"I don't think we've ever gone that long before."

"Nor I. It was like a bloody marathon." Douglas reached out to play with a lock of Fiona's hair. "Are you all right?" _Clever you. Disguise your own distraction by pointing hers out and jump the queue so she won't ask what's bothering you._

"Yeah, I'm…I'm fine. It's just jet lag, I think. That and I've still got a million things waiting for me in Australia, but I wanted…I wanted to see you." She smiled brilliantly at him. "I missed you so much."

Guilt pierced him like a hot needle. "I missed you too, darling. But I've been thinking of you every moment. I'll have to brief you on all the wedding plans."

"Absolutely, sounds marvellous," Fiona said, and climbed out of bed. "Do you want a cup of tea? I'm parched."

"Love one," Douglas said, and leant back against the pillows. The guilt still burned in his chest. He'd been able to perform, but Christ, it had taken forever. Fiona _had_ seemed a bit distracted, but still, she'd been there, pliant, willing, lush and soft beneath and atop him…what in God's name was his problem?

_Do you really have to ask?_

Douglas groaned softly and pulled the pillow over his face.

The situation was becoming less than ideal.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I very much recommend listening to the gorgeous version of _I Can Give You the Starlight_ sung by Jeremy Northam [for the film Gosford Park] here: 
> 
> https://youtu.be/b70-WduCvPw
> 
> What I wouldn't give to hear Roger Allam sing it. :)


	8. Chapter 8

*

 

Martin stopped short as he swung open the Portakabin door. "Oh – Carolyn. Sorry, I didn't expect to see you here." 

"I can't get any paperwork done at home when Arthur's there," Carolyn said, indicating the stack of invoices, receipts, and letters beside her. "There's a miserable draught here, but at least it's quiet, and I can hear myself think."

"I was going to work on some charts for tomorrow, get ahead of things," Martin said. "Erm…I won't be disturbing you, will I?"

"I suppose not," Carolyn replied wearily. "There's room enough, and you're capable of keeping silent for more than five minutes at a time, at any rate. Put the kettle on though, would you? I could use a fresh cup of tea."

"Righto." Martin busied himself with the kettle, making cups of tea for Carolyn and himself. He spread open his charts – they were headed for Utrecht and he'd never been there – but stared at them blankly instead of plotting, letting his tea cool.

That song. God, that silly little song in Mexico, it hadn't seemed much at the time, but hearing Douglas play it in his house was different. More…oh, God, it sounded ridiculous, but _yes_ it felt intimate, was that so wrong? It had been a rather madcap adventure, after all, a sort of desert island castaway scenario in its way, and the song had been emblematic of those few days.

_You idiot. You're making far too much of a lightweight tune, you know._

But Douglas had been quick to say it wasn't a song for himself and Fiona, hadn't he? Or was Martin misinterpreting, again? It was certainly possible, even probable. Look at how enthusiastic Douglas had been when Fiona had surprised him. Bloody surprised them all.

_Fantastic. Now you sound bitter._

Ugh. He didn't want to be bitter. Douglas was his friend. He was Douglas' best man, for goodness' sake. The best man wasn't meant to be bitter and jealous of the fiancée in an impending wedding; it sounded like some terrible _Hollyoaks_ plot, though he and Douglas weren't nearly telegenic enough for Hollyoaks.

"Martin."

Martin looked up, startled. "Hm?"

"You're getting a roaring amount of work done there." Carolyn fixed him with a sceptical eye.

Martin glanced at the clock and saw that nearly twenty-five minutes had passed. "Oh. Gosh, I'm…woolgathering, I suppose."

"Yes, and with a face like a wet week. What on earth is wrong with you?"

"Nothing. Nothing." Martin shook his head. "Nothing."

"Oh," Carolyn said. "Must be nothing."

"Really, it's…." Martin sighed. "Nothing. I'm fine. Just a bit distracted." He cleared his throat noisily, straightened the charts, and stared at them. Utrecht.

"You know, it's interesting," Carolyn said. "Arthur was never the sort to hold back when I asked him a question like that. Of course, he's always been…well, let's be generous and call him forthcoming. If he had something to get off his chest he did it right away."

Martin tightened his mouth. "Are you saying I need to get something off my chest?"

Carolyn shrugged and tapped her biro against the table. "I'm simply saying that Arthur's conscience is a remarkably clear one precisely because he doesn't hold things in. There might be a lesson there for all of us from time to time."

"Fine," Martin snapped. "I'm in love with Douglas." 

_You just said that aloud._

He took a deep, shuddering breath and clapped his hands over his mouth. "Oh my God," he whispered through his fingers.

Carolyn's mouth dropped open. For the first time since Martin had met her she actually seemed bereft of speech. He was in sufficient shock from his own audacity or heedlessness to find her silence extraordinary.

Martin and Carolyn stared at each other in mutual consternation. Martin tried to speak – you wanted me to get things off my chest, he wanted to say, but the words stuck in his throat and his mouth was dust-dry. _I've ruined everything. She'll tell Douglas, or Arthur, and Arthur won't be able to keep quiet about it, and Douglas will know, he'll know everything and he'll PITY me and oh God it's going to be dreadful. I'll have to quit and I'll never be able to find a flying job again and I'll never see any of them again because I'm a bloody idiot oh GOD OH GOD OH GOD._

"For _heaven's_ sake, Martin." Carolyn spoke softly, but with great emphasis. "That was absolutely the last thing I was expecting to hear." She shook her head. "How long has this been going on?"

"I don't know!" Martin cried. "Does it matter?"

"As he's proposed to a woman and intends to marry her in a month's time, I should think it does!"

"Oh, God." Martin stared up at the featureless beige ceiling of the Portakabin and blinked hard, but there was nothing for it; hot, shameful tears spilled from his eyes and ran down his temples into his hair. He hoped Carolyn couldn't see it through the poor lighting.

"Oh, _Martin_." Carolyn's voice was unexpectedly gentle. She'd seen. Bloody hell. Martin squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to let his chin wobble. "Martin, I've no idea what to say."

"I know. I've left it too long." He pressed his hands to his eyes and wiped them furiously, then faced her full-on. The secret was out; no point in trying to hide in plain sight now.

Carolyn spread her hands helplessly. "Well…do you think there's any chance that he would possibly…have had mutual feelings for you? Quite honestly, I wasn't aware that he swung in that direction. For that matter, I didn't know you did, either."

Martin bristled. "I'm discreet, Carolyn."

"Don't be shirty, it's an honest question. I didn't know, that's all."

"All right, it's been ages since I've had a date," Martin admitted grudgingly, deflating. "Certainly not since I've started at MJN, though you'd think that _someone_ might be interested in an airline captain."

"Yes," Carolyn said. "We are _so_ prestigious, after all. All four of us."

Martin sighed. "You know what I mean. Anyhow, I'm not absolutely certain about Douglas. He's, erm, alluded to certain proclivities, if you know what I mean –"

"Almost," Carolyn snorted. "You sound like my Victorian grandfather."

"I don't think he's entirely opposed, that is," Martin retorted with his best withering look, which was entirely lost on Ms Knapp-Shappey. "But I've never been certain."

Carolyn gave a dramatic sigh. "Because you are, to paraphrase the immortal words of Robert Burns, a wee, cowering, timorous beastie, Martin."

"I should coco!" Martin cried indignantly. "I just poured my ruddy _heart_ out to you, Carolyn."

"Exactly," Carolyn said, a sharp gleam in her eye. "I'm not the one to whom you should be speaking, and you know it, you utterly ridiculous young man."

She was right. Of course she was right. "Oh God," Martin said, cradling his head in his hands. "I can't, Carolyn. I can't. I've left it too long." He wanted to cry again, but no tears formed this time, only an awful grey Douglas-less emptiness that threatened to envelop him permanently. Yes, they'd work together, of course, but how could he do that knowing that he'd never taken that leap? And yes, Douglas might not stay with Fiona forever, given his other marriages, but…what if he did? What if she was The One?

Oh, no, no, no. Martin wanted to be The One. Yes, he was utterly ridiculous, perhaps, for so many things, and perhaps even for wanting something so sentimental and gloppily romantic, but so be it. He wanted to be Douglas' One.

But he hadn't the courage.

"You're not a churchgoer, are you?"

Martin looked up. "Not really, no. I mean, I used to go with my family. Sometimes I go at Christmas when I'm at my mum's. Why?"

"Ever heard of crying the banns?"

Martin shook his head. "Oh…wait. Yes, the wedding announcements they print ahead of time. Yes. What makes you ask?"

"Well," Carolyn said, "crying the banns, back in days of yore, gave anyone a chance to object to the marriage on religious or legal grounds. They'd do it a few Sundays in a row before the marriage. Once the banns had been cried and no-one objected, the marriage proceeded as planned."

"Right," Martin said slowly, "but there's no real legal impediment to the marriage, Carolyn."

" _Martin_ ," Carolyn said, "you're being entirely too literal. What I'm saying is that there's still _time_. Do you understand?"

Oh.

OH.

And yet. And yet…. "Carolyn…do you think there's any chance he might feel the same way? Would I just be humiliating myself?"

Carolyn bent to her paperwork. "I have never seen him beleaguer anyone as intently as he does you, Martin. And I consider myself an astute judge of character. Let's leave it at that, shall we? Now if you don't mind, I doubt you're going to make much progress on those charts, so just leave them until tomorrow and let me get on with things here, please."

 

*

 

Two weeks later, though, he still hadn't been able to muster the courage to say anything.

How could he? For goodness' sake, he'd been planning Douglas' wedding with him this whole time. Wouldn't it be completely disingenuous and inappropriate to say "I know you're planning to marry Fiona, but look here, wouldn't you much rather spend the rest of your life with me instead? I'm a far better prospect than the beautiful, successful, intelligent woman you've actually asked to marry you." 

He couldn't do it. He didn't dare to even imagine a scenario in which Douglas might realise that it was Martin he desired; his imagination wouldn't compensate for grim reality, and he didn't want to picture Douglas moving slowly toward him and then stopping, grimacing, comprehending that he'd made a terrible mistake. Eventually, Martin understood that he had to surrender his fantasies to the truth.

They sat in Gateaux sampling four different slices of cake: vanilla bean with Swiss buttercream filling, butter cake with blood orange sauce, chocolate with dulce de leche, and lemon with a raspberry lemon sauce. Martin tried gamely, but every bite he took stuck in his throat, and he couldn't discern one flavour from another.

"The chocolate's a bit too sweet for my liking," Douglas announced.

"Mm. Yes, I think so," Martin agreed, pushing bits of chocolate and dulce de leche filling about on his plate.

"You've barely tasted it."

"It's not really…I think I like the other one." Martin gestured vaguely at one of the other slices.

"The butter with blood orange? Yes, I think I liked that one best as well." Douglas took a deep drink of mineral water. "That's settled, then. Fiona was fine with any of the four, so I'll just text her with the decision." 

They gathered their things and headed to Bilbrey to look over the chapel and house where the reception would be held. Douglas used a large iron key to let them into the chapel, St Wilfrid's, and they walked quietly down the aisle of the ancient stone structure and gazed about. "It's very nice," Martin ventured.

"I married Helena here," Douglas remarked.

"You did?" Martin said. "I had no idea."

"Well, it's her family's house."

"Fiona won't mind you marrying her here?"

"Not at all," Douglas said. "Fiona and Helena are friends. Why, would it bother you?"

"Me? N-no." Martin flushed. "I was just curious. I forgot that Helena and Fiona are friends."

"Fiona's not the jealous sort," Douglas said, running his hand over one of the carved wooden pews. "It was generous of Helena to lend the place."

"You must miss her terribly."

Douglas glanced at Martin in evident surprise. "Helena?"

"No, Fiona."

"Oh. Oh, of course. Yes. But she'll be home next week. Finally. Yes, it's been difficult not having her about, but…yes, it'll be lovely to have her back."

Carolyn's advice echoed in Martin's head: _There's still time._

"Douglas."

Douglas turned. "Yes, Martin?"

Martin couldn't breathe. _You're making a mistake. You should be with me, not Fiona. Yes, she's beautiful, and intelligent, and successful, but…but she'll never play silly word games with you, or understand what it's like to spend sixteen hours on a flight deck escaping the Russian sunset, or eat Arthur's Surprising Rice with you. Maybe she'll do things that are nicer and more glamorous and interesting, but it's not the same._

He couldn't say it. He couldn't bear Douglas' discomfort, his embarrassment, his ultimate pity. "You must be awfully excited," he said, managing a smile.

Douglas nodded, but didn't return the smile. "I am, yes. Absolutely. We'd better go to the house. I've got to get measurements for the caterer." He held out a hand, indicating that Martin should precede him back up the aisle.

 

*

 

The light was poor in Martin's attic room; he had a desk lamp that gave off almost enough illumination to see the note that he'd written.

_Dear Douglas,_

_I know this is an unforgivable thing to do right before your wedding, but I've got to go away for a bit. We've got down to the last few details, and I know you won't have a difficult time managing them on your own. Perhaps Verity can help you with them. She's quite a bit more grown-up than she seems. Than her actual age, I mean._

_You did insist on paying me for the help I gave you, but honestly, I can't take your money. I helped you because you're my friend and because I wanted to. I was happy to do it. I'm only sorry I'm going to miss the wedding. I know you've got lots of friends and can find a much better best man than I'd have been. I hope this gives you enough time to do it. Please tell Fiona I'm sorry and give her my best wishes and congratulations. I know you'll both be very happy._

_I've written Carolyn as well and let her know I've had to take a leave. If she says anything odd to you just ignore it, you know she can be a bit sarky. Perhaps you can put her in the conservatory after all._

_I don't know when I'll be back, probably shortly after the wedding, which means I'll see you after your honeymoon. Have a wonderful time flying commercial, ha-ha._

_Your friend,  
Martin_

Martin sealed the envelope and wrote Douglas' name on the front in a shaky hand. He collected his bag, put the letter in his jacket pocket, turned out the light, and closed the attic door behind him. 

_*_


	9. Chapter 9

*

 

Scowling, Carolyn tore open the envelope with her name on it and unfolded the single sheet of paper inside.

_Dear Carolyn,_

_I know this is terribly cowardly of me, but I've got to go away for a bit, at least until after the wedding. I've given it a lot of thought and decided I haven't got any right to interfere with Douglas and Fiona's happiness. That would be very wrong of me, very presumptuous, and very selfish, I think._

_Please, PLEASE, I'm begging you not to breathe a word of this to Douglas. Let's all just go on as we've done before. I spoke out of turn. It will be fine._

_I wouldn't do this if it left you in the lurch. I know the calendar's pretty bare for the next week and a half. If something comes up perhaps Herc can help? Think of it as an unpaid holiday. I haven't had a proper holiday since I started working for you ~~and since I'm not getting p~~ so I hope you won't mind this one even if it is abrupt._

_I'll be back on 7 May, I promise. Thank you._

_Sincerely,_

_Martin_

_PS: I hope you and Arthur have a good time at the wedding._

Carolyn re-folded the letter and slid it back into the envelope, then pocketed it, shaking her head. "Martin, for heaven's sake."

 

*

 

Douglas pushed the door of the Portakabin open with enough force that it banged against the flimsy wall, startling Carolyn, who sat peering at what looked like an invoice. She inspected him over the top of her reading spectacles. "Oh, good. I do love being disturbed when I'm working."

"Marvellous," Douglas replied flatly. "Perhaps you wouldn't mind explaining why Martin's run off." He brandished his letter and was about to drop it atop Carolyn's stack of paperwork, and then remembered that Martin had mentioned putting Carolyn in the conservatory. Perhaps that wouldn't be prudent, then. He jammed the letter into his pocket.

Carolyn sighed and removed her spectacles, carefully placing them next to her papers. "Why on earth would I know why he's done that?"

"He says he told you he was taking a leave. I tried ringing his mobile but he's not answering. I went round to his house but his housemates said he wasn't there, and his van wasn't there either. What did he say to you? Did he tell you why he was leaving?"

"Oh, good Lord. Have you ever known Martin to confide in me?"

Douglas folded his arms. "I rather think he has. Several times, in fact. He said he wrote you. Would it be too much of an imposition to see your letter?"

"It certainly would," Carolyn said huffily. "It was meant for me, Douglas, not for you. Besides, it's not here, it's at home. Not that I would show it to you if it were here. Look, I'm sorry you're short a best man, but surely you've got a friend or two who can step in. Now if you don't mind…." She placed her glasses back on her nose and bent to her paperwork again.

Douglas pulled a chair out and sat, staring intently at Carolyn.

After a moment, she looked up. "Are you still here?"

"There's something you know. Something you're not saying."

"Is that a fact."

"Carolyn, please," Douglas said, placing a hand atop hers. She frowned at him. "Was there anything he said – anything at all – that indicated that he was…I don't know, upset, or sad?"

"Why would you assume that?" she countered. "Did you say something to upset him?"

"No! Only I can't think why else he would leave so abruptly. Things were going splendidly. We were having a marvellous time."

"Well, you know what he's like, Douglas."

"What do you mean?"

"Sensitive. Prickly. Easily nettled. Oh, it's not as if you don't know all this."

"But I didn't say anything that might have upset him!" Douglas protested. "Why, the last time I saw him, we did the cake tasting, and then we went to the chapel together – what's the matter?"

"Nothing," Carolyn said.

"You made a terrible face just now."

"Indigestion," Carolyn said.

Douglas sighed. "I just can't think of anything that I might have said that would have hurt his feelings. I –" He stared at Carolyn again. "Carolyn…I'm only going to ask you this once, and I beg you…I _beg_ you, keep it to yourself because it's going to sound peculiar…has Martin ever indicated that he was entirely heterosexual?"

Carolyn scoffed. "What sort of question is that?"

"A genuine and honest question, if a peculiar one. Will you answer it, please?"

Her mouth twisted wryly, and she rolled her eyes. "No. He has never indicated to me that he was entirely heterosexual."

"I see," Douglas said. "I didn't word that quite accurately, did I. Here's another question, then: has Martin ever indicated a more than comradely interest in me?"

"Good _heavens_ ," Carolyn said. "Aren't we fond of ourselves."

"We are, I'll freely admit it," Douglas said. "But has he?"

"Are you interested in him, Douglas?" Carolyn prodded.

"I'm engaged to Fiona."

"I'm well aware. But that wasn't what I asked you."

Douglas was silent and, suddenly aware with a near-blinding clarity, afraid. If he said yes, if he admitted it aloud to another living soul, it would change everything. Why that was so, he couldn't say, but that validation hanging in the air would mean the death of his engagement. He wasn't the sort who could truly love two people at the same time, and as much as he was loath to admit it, he had been cooling toward Fiona by degrees. And it wasn't her fault. Christ, what sort of man was he? The worst sort of failed romantic, that was what. Fit for nobody at all, and nobody was what he deserved, because he couldn't lie to Fiona and if he was wrong about Martin, then he would simply be alone. Maybe that was for the best.

"Douglas?"

He stood, a bit shakily. "I've got to go, Carolyn. If you hear from Martin…tell him to call me, please."

Carolyn didn't respond, but he fancied he felt her staring at him as he left.

 

*

 

He was watching telly, some true-crime rubbish, when the front bell rang.

_Martin!_

Galvanised, Douglas leapt to his feet and all but ran for the front door. He threw it open to see Fiona, smartly dressed as always, with her handbag and an overnight case. "Darling – you're early!" He stepped close and embraced her, feeling odd and tentative. 

Fiona kissed his cheek. "I know – surprise!" She stepped back. "You're not busy, are you?"

"No, no. I'm flying in the morning, but free as a bird tonight." He smiled and held the door open for her. "Let me take your things." He divested her of coat and bags and put them in the front room. "Cup of tea?"

"Erm, yes. No. I could use a drink, actually."

"I've only got fruit juice, darling."

"Right, right. Tea would be lovely, thanks." She sat at the kitchen table.

Douglas set about boiling the kettle. "A bit of bad news – Martin's gone away quite abruptly. I'm down a best man."

"Why, what's wrong?"

"Not really sure. He left a note, had to take a sudden leave."

"Oh. That's a shame," she said distantly, playing with the strap of her wristwatch.

"I suppose we can get along without one. Verity can act as general person of honour. Better not to have so many dull speeches anyway. Are you hungry?"

"No, no. I had a snack on the plane."

"It's nice to see you sooner than scheduled," Douglas said, afraid that the words – that everything coming out of his mouth – was falling with a leaden thud.

"Raffinee called and said the dress was ready for the final fitting." Fiona tugged at the sleeves of her blue dress. "So I thought…I thought perhaps we should sit down and have a chat."

Douglas' stomach did a slow, lazy, unpleasant roll. He set down the cups in his hands. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes. Sit down, would you, love?" Fiona patted the table.

Douglas sat across from her and studied her face. She looked tired and rather unhappy. A sharp stab of guilt assailed him. He'd spent three days since his little encounter with Carolyn pondering his dilemma, one that he was still afraid to voice aloud: ridiculous, since it wasn't a spell or incantation. It simply _was_. He was in love with –

"Darling…." She bit her lower lip. "I got a call from Rhys Lund at UK Live Nation. It seems that Live Nation in the US wants to book the lads for a twenty-five city American tour."

Douglas clasped Fiona's hands. "That's fantastic, Fi! The big time for your boys at last. I'm certain their heads won't fit through the door now, and they're going to pick up all sorts of interesting diseases, but this is a huge coup for you!"

"And the potential earnings are…I can scarcely wrap my head around them. It's mind-boggling." She drew a deep breath. "There's just one thing. They want to jump on this, because 'Drip Honey Drip' just broke in the New York metro dance market…so they want the tour to start in two weeks."

Douglas went still, and then straightened. "But the wedding's in two weeks."

"I know," Fiona whispered. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Do you want to postpone?"

Fiona let out a shaky breath and stared down at the table.

The kettle began to whistle. Douglas got up and moved it to another ring before sitting again, not bothering with the tea. "Don't you want to get married?" His stomach rolled again, and a furious jumble of emotion began to churn in his chest. Anger, hurt, betrayal, and…surely not relief?

"You've been perfect," Fiona said.

 _Not so perfect_ , Douglas thought. 

"You're a true romantic, and…and an old-fashioned man at heart. I think I would disappoint you."

"What do you mean by that?" Douglas asked.

"Even if I came home from this tour, there would be something else…I think I'm going to need to move to London very soon. Fitton is just…." She shrugged. "It's not convenient for me any longer. And I'd be at the office ten hours a day when I'm not with the lads or taking meetings."

Something in Douglas compelled him to make the argument. "You forget that I'm out and about rather a lot myself."

"Yes, but you come home. You like being home, and you like having someone to come home to. You've said as much."

Douglas envisioned Martin sitting in the chair next to his, reading books on aeroplanes, playing Flight Simulator at the computer…making mad, passionate love in his bed. He felt a hot flush creeping up his neck.

"Are you angry, darling?"

"No, no," Douglas averred hastily.

"You've gone all red."

"I'm fine. Can I ask you something?"

"Yes, of course."

"Are you still in love with me? Or has that changed?" Perverse question. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer. He was sure she would suggest still being together. They were scintillating in bed, after all, there was no doubt about that.

"I do absolutely love you. But I can't let this opportunity pass me by. I love my work too much. I know I sound heartless, but…it's my life. I can't abandon it even for a moment. Domesticity…it's not me. It's never been me. I've been thinking about this for weeks but I hadn't the courage…I'm so sorry, Douglas. I know the more time passed the worse it got, but here we are, so close, and I can't. I can't."

Douglas nodded and folded his hands. Relief mingled with anxiety into a noxious brew in his belly. "I understand."

"Darling, I'm so sorry. I can't tell you…I know there are a hundred things to unpick, and I'm happy to help you with anything you need."

"No," he said calmly. "I can take care of it. I've got all the details. No need for you to trouble yourself." He smiled. "We're still friends?"

Tears filled Fiona's eyes. "You want to be friends with me?"

"Yes, of course. I still love you as well, you know." He lifted one of her hands and kissed it.

"Oh, darling…." Fiona slipped off her engagement ring and pressed it into his hand. "I can't keep this."

"No, it's yours."

"It's not. Do you know, I think there's someone out there who's absolutely perfect for you. In fact, I know there is." She smiled through her tears.

Douglas squeezed her hand gently. _Good God, I hope you're right._

 

*

 

A thrill of jubilation shuddered down Douglas' spine as he rounded the corner of the hangar and saw Martin's van parked behind the Flap and Throttle, the old DC-10 fuselage they'd once used as a pub, almost hidden from sight. Cautiously, he peered inside, but it was dark and empty. _Hell_. He glanced about, flummoxed and annoyed, and then smiled.

_Of course._

He grasped the handle of the fuselage door and wrenched it up, opening the door. He heard a scuttling noise, then a loud thump. Squinting in the dimness, he saw Martin picking himself up from the floor and righting an overturned chair. "Martin?"

"Douglas?" Martin turned on another light, a glaring work-light, and peered at Douglas, clinging to the back of the chair. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"I might ask you the same thing." Douglas took in the shabby sofa that Martin had evidently been using for a bed, and the packaged sandwich wrapper and empty polystyrene cup on the low table beside it. He took in Martin's faded jumper and jeans, and clean hair (had he been using the fire crew's shower?), pale skin, and tired eyes. His heart lurched, but he stayed perfectly still.

"Erm…ah…there's a…gas leak in my house. I needed somewhere to stay."

"Funny. Your housemates seemed fine."

Bright pink spread across Martin's cheeks. "You went to my house? Why?"

"I was concerned, that's why."

"Didn't you get my letter?"

"I did," Douglas replied mildly. "Hence my concern."

Martin's eyes darted back and forth. He went to the low table and gathered up the detritus of his sad little meal. "Well, there's no need for concern, Douglas, but thanks. You should probably go home."

"Martin, if I said something wrong – did something wrong – I'm sorry for it. I rather thought we were getting along like a house on fire."

His back turned to Douglas, Martin bowed his head. "We were."

"Then why did you leave? Was the prospect of being my best man that terrible?" Impulsively, Douglas took a step forward and laid a hand on Martin's shoulder, but Martin flinched away as if he'd been burnt. Stung, Douglas moved back. _I've misread the signals. This was a mistake._ "I'm sorry. I seem to be rotten luck for everyone I know and love lately." Martin didn't reply. "I wanted to apologise if I placed too much of a burden on you, and thank you for everything you did. It really meant the world to me. And I wanted to let you know that…well, that Fi and I have called off the wedding. It seems we weren't quite meant for each other after all. So if you wanted to go back to work…in any case, I thought I'd let you know."

Douglas waited a moment, but Martin didn't stir; he stood motionless, forlornly clutching his rubbish. _I've done all I can_ , he decided, and turned on his heel, exiting the fuselage. Briefly, he touched the side of Martin's ancient, crumbling van, and headed for his own car.

"Douglas!"

He turned to see Martin running toward him, his face pink with exertion. His heart thrummed wildly, but he kept his voice calm. "What is it, Martin?"

Martin stopped a few metres away, breathing hard. "Why aren't you getting married? I-I mean, why aren't you meant for each other?"

"Well…." Douglas hesitated. "There is someone out there for me, but as it happens, it isn't Fiona."

"Oh." Martin frowned. "I don't understand."

Douglas took a deep breath, and plunged. "I'm only beginning to understand myself," he said. "You see, I was rather hoping that it was you."

Martin's complexion went from pink to white. "Douglas…please…I know you love to have a laugh at my expense, but please, _please_ don't do this. It's very cruel of you." His voice trembled.

Reaching out, Douglas caught Martin's hand and brought it to his lips. Turning it, he kissed the palm gently and then looked into Martin's stunned face. "I have never been more serious in my life." Gently, he drew Martin close and brushed the pad of his thumb over Martin's lower lip, yearning to kiss it and only now realising how long he'd yearned for just that. "All that wedding preparation…I should have known. I've been terribly, terribly foolish."

"But you're not even – do you even like men?"

"Oh, Martin. You assume I'm inexperienced, is that it?"

"Well, I didn't – I don't know…."

"I'm not. But that doesn't matter. It's you, Martin. I'm very much in love with you."

"I…I don't…." Martin shook his head, unable to finish.

Douglas bent and gently kissed Martin's mouth. _Delicious_. He forced himself to pull away and look into Martin's sea-blue eyes. "Captain Crieff…will you marry me?"

Martin let out a shuddering breath, and a slow, radiant smile came to brilliant life on his face. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes, yes." He threw his arms round Douglas' neck. "Douglas –"

Threading his fingers through Martin's curls, Douglas tilted Martin's head back and dove in for a proper kiss.

Why on _earth_ had he waited so long?

 

*

 

The chapel was chilly, and a steady rain drummed down on the roof, but Martin was warm – indeed, flushed and sweating in his wool tuxedo. It was difficult to concentrate on the minister's words; he was too intent on his husband-to-be.

 _Husband_. It hardly seemed possible. He'd pinched himself several times over the past two weeks, expecting bleak, bruising reality, but here he was, marrying Douglas Richardson. The barriers of discomfort and silence and misunderstanding had broken and they'd been left with each other – hesitant, a bit awkward – they were work chums, after all, and this was entirely new, wasn't it? But one kiss had led to another and soon enough….

Well, they hadn't done _everything_. Douglas had wanted to leave a bit of mystery for the wedding night. But they'd been rather naughty in the Flap and Throttle. And in the Windsock Arms. And on the flight deck of GERTI, actually. 

Douglas smiled at Martin as if he knew exactly what Martin was thinking, and Martin felt his face get even warmer. The small crowd in the chapel probably thought he was on the verge of fainting.

The minister turned a page in her prayer book. "Douglas, if you would please take Martin's hand."

Douglas grasped Martin's hand and held it, gazing into Martin's eyes with such warmth and adoration that Martin wanted to melt into his arms. _All that teasing, all those games…the whole time, I never knew. I'm such a berk._

"Please repeat after me. 'I, Douglas, take you, Martin, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward….'"

Douglas' smile deepened. "I, Douglas, take you, Martin, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward…."

"'For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health….'"

"For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health…."

"'To love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy law. In the presence of God I make this vow.'"

"To love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy law. In the presence of God I make this vow." Douglas squeezed Martin's hand gently.

"Martin, repeat after me. 'I, Martin, take you, Douglas…."

As Martin repeated the words, he managed not to stumble over them – a minor miracle – and managed, as well, to hold back the tears of utter joy that swam in his eyes.

 

*

 

"Everything looks beautiful," Verity said, spooning up sorbet. "You did such a fantastic job at planning all this."

"I didn't know it would be for me!" Martin confessed, sipping at his third – no, fourth glass of champagne.

Verity grinned. Her hair, cut into a sleek Louise Brooks bob, shimmered in the light. "Would you have changed anything?"

Martin looked about. The lilacs were perfect, abundant and fragrant. The food was lovely. The venue was gorgeous. There were fewer people owing to Martin having far fewer friends than Fiona – they'd wound up with about sixty people rather than a hundred – but that just meant more champagne and food for everyone. He shook his head. "No. Not a thing."

"Me either." In a rare show of emotion, Verity threw her arms around Martin and kissed his cheek. "I'm glad it was you, Martin. I liked Fiona, but I knew Dad belonged with you."

Touched beyond words, Martin embraced her, cautious not to muss her sparkling vintage dress. "I still can't believe any of this is happening," he said after a moment. He held his hand out to Douglas, who was returning from visiting other tables.

Douglas sat, happy and flushed. "We'll have dancing in a moment."

"Straighten your tie, Douglas," Carolyn said. She lifted her champagne glass and drank.

"Yes, madam," Douglas said. "Thank you. You're looking splendid. Did I tell you?"

"No, you didn't," Carolyn said. She adjusted the glittering jacket to her plum-coloured suit and touched the brim of her hat. "Thank you, though."

"It is lovely," said Wendy Crieff, who'd spent most of the day looking terribly happy, if a bit bewildered.

"Mum bought the suit and hat especially," Arthur said, resplendent himself in a tartan dress jacket and bow tie. "She was thrilled to bits."

"Oh, Arthur," Carolyn scoffed. "Well, it is nice to have an occasion to dress. One gets to do it so infrequently these days."

"Ladies and gentlemen," the DJ broke in, "Please welcome the newlyweds in their first dance."

"That's us," Douglas announced as everyone applauded, taking Martin's hand. "Come along, Captain."

Martin followed Douglas onto the dance floor, and as 'I Can Give You The Starlight' wafted out of the speakers, he sighed with delight. "Oh, Douglas…."

"Tell me what I was thinking, wanting to marry anyone but you," Douglas murmured.

"I never even allowed myself to think you'd give me so much as a second glance. But Carolyn was right."

"Aha! I knew it. What did she say?" Douglas nodded and smiled at the other couples joining them on the dance floor.

"She said she'd never seen you beleaguer anyone as intently as you did me." Martin flushed. "Is that true?"

Douglas frowned, then threw his head back and roared with laughter. "Bloody hell! The woman's too sharp for her own good." He bent and kissed Martin's lips. "She's right, of course. I never realised it myself."

"Thank you for seating her at our table."

"Well," Douglas said, "she and Arthur are family, after all."

"Yes," Martin said. "They are."

"Pity we can't actually have a honeymoon."

"Well, it wouldn't work with both pilots away," Martin said, "and I can't bear to be separated from you."

Douglas put a finger under Martin's chin and tilted his face upward. "Say that last bit again."

Martin smiled bashfully. "I can't bear to be separated from you."

"My God, I adore you." Douglas stopped dancing and kissed Martin passionately.

Martin kissed back and hardly heard the applause and cheers about him.

 

*

 

It was well past two when they got back to Douglas' house. They'd decided to forgo a night at a hotel or staying in the drafty Bilbrey great house – Douglas' house was cosy and warm and they'd have a two-day holiday before they had to fly again.

Despite the warmth, Martin shivered in Douglas' bedroom as he divested himself of his tuxedo and covertly watched Douglas do the same. He stripped down to the new black boxer briefs he'd bought (a splurge – he'd realised how sad and grey all his Y-fronts looked when he and Douglas began groping illicitly before the wedding) and waited, hoping Douglas would take the lead.

Douglas' boxers were dark green silk; naturally, all his clothes were beautiful and expensive-looking. He turned the bed down. "Get in, you're shivering."

"I'm a bit chilled."

"I'll warm you," Douglas promised. Martin climbed into Douglas' bed with its lovely duvet and soft sheets. Douglas dimmed the lights and climbed in beside him. "I feel as if I've been waiting ages for this."

"I have."

"Have you?"

"Yes," Martin whispered, and reached up for a kiss.

Douglas stroked the nape of Martin's neck, his fingers twining in Martin's curls. He bent and kissed Martin's throat, and then his collarbone. "Lovely."

"Ohhh." Martin slipped his hand between Douglas' legs and found him half-hard already. He snugged up against Douglas' pelvis, rocking slowly. "Oh."

Douglas groaned. His hands found Martin's arse and slipped the boxer briefs down, caressing Martin's bare skin, and his mouth fastened on Martin's, plundering now. Martin rose up to meet him, his thighs clamping around Douglas' hips, his hands restless on Douglas' arms, his back. A soft muted keening built in the back of his throat as he struggled to lower the green silk boxers.

"Oh. Oh God." Douglas pulled away, panting. "We should slow down a bit. I don't want it over in a moment." He bent and delicately licked Martin's nipple.

Martin let out a whimper. "I won't last much longer."

"All right," Douglas said hoarsely. "I reckon we'll have plenty of nights like these." He rolled over and opened the bedside table drawer. Martin lay back, trying to regain his breath as Douglas rummaged through the drawer, and then gasped as he felt Douglas pulling his boxer briefs off. "Not that they're not very handsome," Douglas said, "but they're in my way." 

Martin heard a crinkle and a sort of stretchy snap. "Are you…is that a condom?"

"For now."

"All right." He gasped again as he felt something wet and slippery against his arse. "Oh –"

"Lubricant."

"Oh. Oh."

"You did indicate that you wanted to –"

"Yes. Yes." Martin's breathing speeded up.

"Turn over, love."

Martin turned over, and moaned as he felt Douglas atop him, lightly, his warmth and roughness and breath, kissing and caressing.

"Lift your hips."

Martin pressed against Douglas' erection.

"No, no. Fingers first. Still, still. Slowly…."

It was slow; wet; deep, almost, not-quite painful, and Douglas stopped at intervals, whispering to him, stroking his back, his belly, his cock, bringing him to arousal over and over again until Martin was shaking. "Do it, Douglas. Christ –" Douglas' hands closed on Martin's hips and he pressed in, slow and hard, and then pulled out, nearly all the way, then pushed in again. Sweat made his body slippery against Martin's. Out, almost out. Then in, deep, deeper. Martin squeezed his eyes shut and keened again, reaching between his legs to grasp his cock. "I'm going to – ohhh!" He shuddered endlessly, his body a taut bow, gold and red nebulae washing over him.

 

*

 

He blinked and sat up, shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight streaming into the bedroom.

_Am I late? Carolyn's going to kill me._

He half-turned and saw Douglas slumbering beside him and relaxed, though shock silvered its way down his spine for perhaps the hundredth time in two weeks. _I'm married. It's not a dream, not a joke. I'm married to Douglas. God, I fell asleep right after we…._ Dull embarrassment replaced the shock, and he lay back down and pulled the covers over his head. _Some brilliant lover you are._

Douglas stirred and mumbled. "Good morning."

"Good morning," Martin said softly. Was his breath horrible? He didn't dare kiss Douglas.

Too late. Douglas sat up, pulled the covers down, and kissed the top of Martin's head. "I trust you slept well. You certainly fell asleep _abruptly_. Is that part of your inner ear condition? You should have warned me before we got married."

"Oh, God, Douglas. I'm sorry. I think I had too much champagne."

Douglas snorted laughter. "Don't worry. We've plenty of time to practise. But – first things first. To wit: breakfast. What do you say to eggs, bacon, and toast?"

"Sounds lovely," Martin said. The thought of eating a real breakfast instead of just toast and tea was astounding. They'd had a talk about finances – Douglas hadn't wanted Martin to contribute to the household expenses, but Martin insisted, pointing out that he wouldn't be paying rent any longer. Douglas had finally relented after a struggle and said that Martin could pay for half the groceries if Martin promised not to buy only bread, pasta, and potatoes. Martin had promised eagerly. "Shall I make it?"

"No, I will. I quite like cooking."

"I never reckoned you were so…domestic."

Douglas smiled lazily. "I did tell you domesticity suited me, didn't I? It helps when you've someone to make a fuss over, though."

"You're a romantic soul."

"I am," Douglas said. He bent and kissed Martin's neck. "Very romantic indeed."

"Well, then," Martin said, winding his arms round Douglas' neck. "Perhaps breakfast can wait." 

 

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Many thanks to Sunday Duck for bidding on me for Fandom Trumps Hate. <3
> 
> And thanks for your patience while this story was so long in updating!


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